and glanced through it quickly. Most of the first part of the text had been obscured by a dark, blotchy stain, but he was able to make out enough to see what it was. Cornwell had tried to recreate the ritual in his own hand. Donovan read a few lines, shuddered, and glanced back at the circle. Had he done it? This was a powerful ritual. Had it just backfired, allowing the demon to drag its summoner back through the portal that was created, or was there a more sinister answer?
Donovan quickly inventoried what lay closest to the circle, and within it. Almost everything was there, the braziers, the candles, a variety of powders and the symbolic sacrificial cup and sword. There should have been more though. He turned back to the older book, flipped through the pages, and found what he wanted.
The wand was clearly pictured and not difficult to assemble. Assuming that Cornwell had gathered the proper crystals, and the three flexible oak saplings, it would have been simple to create the instrument that was called for. Even a rank amateur would understand that there was a huge distinction between substituting one item for another and leaving something out altogether. And if something were left out, it would not be the wand.
He turned back to the circle and began a search, moving in a spiral pattern, starting in the center and working outward. He was careful to check the corners, and the shadows. Whatever had blown the windows out of the cathedral had probably originated in or near the circle, and the wand could have been blown free. He found nothing, and after a quick look down and through the pews, he concluded that if the wand had existed, it had either been taken, or destroyed.
He turned to the rear of the cathedral and the hallway leading out and back. As he approached this, something in the aura of energy shifted. He stood very still for a moment, and then drew a flat piece of colored crystal from his pocket. He held this up to his eye, and studied the floor.
Small lines, like gossamer, floated in the air and trailed off down the hallway. Someone had passed through there recently — someone with a great deal more talent and power than Cornwell had possessed. There was no way to tell what this other might have carried with them. Donovan stepped into the hall and something along the wall caught his eye.
He leaned down and plucked a single black feather from the dust. It gleamed blue-black, and he knew that, despite how it would look to the casual observer, this feather had not come from the ragged, decrepit old crow in the next room.
Donovan thought back to the winged intruder in his study, and his frown deepened. He could not imagine why, but he knew now that the wand had been taken. He’d have to look for a connection in Le Duc’s journal when he returned to his office. For now, he had some quick cleanup to take care of, and not much time to do it.
He heard the distant wail of a siren. It could be that the locals had finally broken through their innate dislike and fear of the police and made the call the authorities. If the windows had just blown out, the sound might have alerted someone on patrol. It was possible that the sirens might not be headed his way at all. In any case, Donovan didn’t want to be caught in the old cathedral. It would be awkward trying to talk his way out of such a situation, and even more awkward trying to charm them long enough to escape. Better not to be seen at all.
He walked quickly back inside and headed toward the pews. He couldn’t leave all of Cornwell’s supplies lying about. Some of what he’d gathered was dangerous in the wrong hands, and it was going to look damned strange to the police as it was.
He quickly sorted through the books and scrolls. Most of it was garbage, things that could be purchased in any mundane used bookstore, but there were bits and pieces of genuine material in the lot, and he wished he had enough time to go through it all carefully.
The powders and ingredients were easier. These he dumped on the floor and kicked away beneath the pews. Without the proper ritual and words to transform them, they were nothing more than herbs, dust and powder. No one would think twice about a homeless person leaving behind an empty pile of Tupperware.
The sirens grew louder, and he hurried. He gathered up all the crystals, books, parchments and odds and ends he could carry and hurried toward the rear of the church. When they arrived, they’d come to the front. If he hurried, he could be off and down the street before then. They wouldn’t figure out what it was that had caused the explosion. They also wouldn’t find any trace of the inhabitant. They’d get vague stories from the locals, but none that would help. They wouldn’t be looking for a pile of dust, so there was no concern that they’d stumble across something important.
As he worked, the old crow tottered to its feet and glared at him. Donovan ignored it. The bird was a familiar, and though it looked ratty and time-worn, it would possess the intelligence to understand he wasn’t the threat. Whoever had entered the cathedral and put an end to its master, that someone wasn’t Donovan.
It watched balefully as he tied the parchments and books together into a bundle and wrapped them in an old cloak. There was no time to sort through it, so he packed anything and everything into the bundle that seemed potentially harmful, working quickly.
The sirens were just down the street, and there was no time left. He’d done what he could. With a last glance around the cathedral, he slung the bundled package over his shoulder and hurried toward the rear hall. Blue and white lights flashed on the street outside. A door slammed. Donovan ducked into the back hall. He saw dim light ahead, and knew it was the rear door. If the earlier intruder had been able to make it out that way, there was no reason to believe he couldn’t follow.
There was a fluttering sound behind him, and he cursed. The bundle hampered his movements, and he was unable to turn before the bird reached him. It didn’t attack this time, however. With a soft, forlorn caw, the battered creature landed on the bundle Donovan carried and hunkered down, digging in with its talons.
“Shoo!” Donovan said, trying not to raise his voice. “Get off there. Go on back. I don’t have time for this.”
He heard voices. The sound of radio static shattered the near silence, and the screech of tires on pavement announced the arrival of a second police cruiser. Donovan cursed again and ran the last few yards to the rear door. He stepped out into a shadowed parking lot. It was overgrown with vines and surrounded on three sides by a broken down fence. There were holes in this where others had crawled through before, and he studied them hurriedly, trying to choose which would best suit his needs.
A dark figure stepped from the shadows, and Donovan spun on him.
“Martinez says you should give that package to me.” The voice was low and menacing. There was a trace of a Hispanic accent, but Donovan had no time to place it.
“Tell Martinez I’m sorry I couldn’t stop by to chat,” he replied, circling warily toward the nearest break in the fence.
There were voices audible in the cathedral, and a third cruiser had screeched to a halt out front. The flashing lights blinked off the cloudy, overcast sky and gave the parking lot an eerie, otherworldly aspect.
The shadowy figure lunged. Something glittered brightly in his right hand, and Donovan dodged left. With the bundle over his shoulder he couldn’t get off a proper charm, but if he dropped it he’d never get it back together and get out of the lot with it before the police found their way through the hall and out the back door.
Something shifted on his shoulder, and he stumbled. He started to topple, and then righted himself. He reached into his pocket with his free hand, but before he could sift through his pocket for what he needed, something dark dove through the air and caught his attacker full in the face. The man was fast. He whipped the blade he held up in a lightning arc, but he sliced only air.
The old crow dropped on him again, this time from one side, scoring the man’s face and slicing a deep cut in his ear. He cried out. Donovan dove for the fence, ducked through a hole in the old rotten boards, and was gone. He heard the man cry out a third time. The bird cried out, as well, and for a second Donovan thought it had been hit, but moments later he heard the steady beat of wings overhead and knew it had escaped to fight another day.
He smiled, right up until the heavy weight of the thing thumped down hard on his bundle again. As he wound his way through the dark streets and out of the barrio, he shook his head and frowned.
“Cleo,” he informed Asmodeus darkly, “is not going to like this.”
TWELVE
Donovan wasted little time on the streets. If you knew where to step, and when to turn, there were back roads and alleys in San Valencez that could take you a great distance, even on foot, in a very short time. Most of
