“He has fed her something,” Johndrow said. “I don’t know what it was, but it was powerful. I can almost taste it. I…”
He fell silent, and the younger man cursed.
“This is too much,” he said. “First he steals Vanessa from your home, now he invades our minds, using hers. We can’t just sit around and wait, hoping this DeChance will find him. We have to act ourselves, and quickly.”
“I told him he would have forty eight hours,” Johndrow said, reaching for his glass. He steadied himself, then took a long gulp of the wine, and then put the goblet down again. “You must be patient, Vein, we all must be. Donovan is not just any man, and this job is beyond our knowledge. I’ll ask you what he asked me; what would you do if you found this thief? If he can control Vanessa, drag her out of here like a toy, and controls her still — what chance would you have?”
There was no insult or contempt in Johndrow’s question, but the younger man scowled. “You are too quick to let others make your decisions,” he snapped. “I would not go alone. There are others — many others. We’ll find the one who has done this, and we’ll put an end to this once and for all.'
“You will wait,” Johndrow said. He rose to his feet and glared at his visitor. “You will not do anything to jeopardize her safety. Is that clear?”
The young man stood silent, glaring at him, and Johndrow repeated the question.
“Am I clear, Vein? No interference. None. When the time comes that we have no choice but to take this matter into our own hands, you will be the first I call.”
Vein said nothing. He drained his own wine goblet, and placed it on the table beside Johndrow’s.
“I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’m expected downtown.”
Johndrow watched him for a moment, as if judging the other’s silence.
“Stay in touch,” Johndrow said, turning back to the window. It was growing dark out. Soon he’d be able to open the shield and watch the stars. “Don’t do anything foolish. Two days is not such a long time — particularly for us.”
Vein turned on his heel and vanished from the room. Moments later a soft chime indicated that he’d found his way to the elevator and been granted access.
“Where are you, Vanessa?” Johndrow asked.
Silence was his only answer, and he punctuated it by pouring another glass of wine.
SEVEN
Most of the citizens of the world travel through cities by the main roads. Heads down and collars pulled up against the growing chill of night, they slide past the mouths of alleys and turn away from shadowed stairways, particularly those leading down. Deeper in, where the veins of civilization are narrow and more easily clogged, where side streets and garbage-strewn tributaries trail off into unknown darkness, another city thrives.
The two coexist in reasonable peace, the citizens of each rarely crossing into the other’s world or brushing shoulders on purpose.
Still, there are gray areas. Life has certain requirements, and some of those requirements exist on the other side of boundaries otherwise avoided. At such boundaries, you sometimes find a crossroads. That’s what Club Chaos had become.
The only way to reach the club was through an alley. You walked down to where a neon sign said PHONE, and you stepped into the phone booth. Right off the bat it was strange, because there is no reason a phone booth would be located in a dark alley. Who would use it? Once inside, you dialed a number, and the booth spun like a revolving door and deposited you inside. There were several distinct numbers you might use to access Club Chaos.
The first, the number you’d find now and then on the streets, in phone booths or inked onto bathroom walls; the one in the fine print at the bottom of posters announcing live entertainment and cheap drinks; that number was obvious. You dialed sixty-nine and you spun into a world where morality was checked at the door. The music was loud, usually heavy gothic or industrial, pounding so loudly that the most important skill patrons developed was an ability to read lips and a willingness to communicate on a more primal level.
This was the area of the club where worlds mixed most freely. The undead haunted the shadows and held court with pale, thin children and aging junkies. Musicians searched for their own crossroads down chemical highways, always providing the backbeat and the melody required to sustain the groove. Donovan had spent plenty of time there, though not as much in recent years.
If you dialed the more complex 360, your entrance was different. When the booth spun, it didn’t stop at the one hundred and eighty degree point, as you’d expect, but spun on around. Logic said you’d step back into the alley, but logic was on hold at Club Chaos. What you entered with the 360 code was a very dark bar. There were no mirrors, few lights, only ranks of dark tables where quite conversations were carried on in low tones. The air was always smoky, and the music was always soft. It ranged from blues to light jazz, from Robert Johnson to Charlie Johnson and back again.
They called this central bar The Crossroads, and there was no set clientele. It was a place for business transactions and private liaisons. It was neutral ground where the two halves of the club, and of the city, met in relative peace. There were no bouncers in sight, but Donovan knew from experience that they would miraculously appear if they were needed. Trouble was rare, and when it erupted, was handled quickly and with great force.
Donovan stepped into the phone booth and punched in the second code without hesitation. He knew three codes personally, and knew of the existence of at least two others. He imagined the club as a giant wheel with alcoves all around its circumference, but he’d never had opportunity or reason to look into it. He had access to the third, more private club, but his business lay elsewhere this day. He needed information, and he needed to find it quickly. He might have found the information by dialing sixty-nine, but he wasn’t in the mood to scream over the music, and he didn’t like using other means of communication in such an exposed place.
Scattered patrons lined the bar and leaned in close over the tables. As he entered The Crossroads, a few heads turned in his direction, but no one spoke. There was no bell over the door, and there were no greetings shouted from the bar, or the tables. He was simply absorbed by the smoke and Billie Holiday’s crooning voice, and then deposited on a stool at the bar without ceremony.
The barman approached, polishing a glass tumbler carefully with a gleaming white towel. He had long hair, and the way he squinted with his right eye gave his face a sort of sideways, off-kilter aspect. He didn’t speak, just stopped in front of Donovan, who ordered bourbon and water on the rocks, nodded, and spun.
There were three others at the bar. Donovan turned and inspected them quickly. He didn’t let his gaze linger on any one person, or table, because it just wasn’t done. This was a place you came to if you needed privacy, as well as a private hideaway for making deals and sealing pacts. A lot of what happened here was never intended to be spoken of or described once a patron walked back out through the door and into the alley, and it was better still if they managed to develop a case of amnesia.
Donovan had been coming to The Crossroads for many years, and he respected their policies. He’d made use of the place several times in his own business dealings, and had always appreciated that they were courteous and discrete.
At the far end of the bar, a very thin woman leaned over a cup of something hot. It might have been herbal tea, but Donovan didn’t think so. When he’d entered the room, she’d turned to the door — maybe hoping to see someone else slip in — and he’d seen her eyes. They reflected what light was available in the room and flashed silver. They were a seer’s eyes, and every time Donovan met such a gaze he had the urge to turn away. For a brief moment he considered approaching her — it was possible she could find his answers for him without the personal risk and trouble other methods entailed, but he decided against it. Consulting a seer had its perils, and was never cheap.
A couple of stools down from her two others sat together. They leaned in close and brushed shoulders as they whispered. One rose abruptly, pushed back from the bar, and headed for the door. The other signaled the bartender to refill his beer glass. Donovan didn’t hesitate. He rose, slid over a few stools to sit beside the man, and indicated to the barman that he was buying.
The man seated beside Donovan didn’t look up at his approach. There was also no complaint when the
