late-night gatherings, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The graveyard had a history of murder, dark ritual, and unexplained mystery that made daylight citizens uneasy. The result was a constant patrol, and though the guards themselves had quickly begun to grow lax as day after day passed with nothing more interesting than leaves blowing across the trail and an occasional teenager turned away at the gates, the San Valencez and Lavender Police Departments still cruised by regularly, flashing spotlights between the gravestones and watching.
The locked gate didn’t trouble Donovan. He stepped up quickly, gripped the heavy padlock in one hand and pressed a small circular charm to the back. The lock opened with a soft pop, and the chains snaked down to pool at the base of the gate. Donovan opened one half very slightly, cringing at the loud creak, and slipped inside. Once inside, he wrapped the chain back around the gate, slid the hook of the padlock through the links on both sides, but left it open. A casual glance would not show that it had been tampered with, and on his way out he didn’t want to be bothered with stopping to open it again. He didn’t expect to be in any more of a hurry when he left, but you never knew.
When he was clear of the gate, he stepped immediately into the shadows. He didn’t believe the guard would actually patrol this far back so late at night, even though it was part of the job. Still, if anyone had been close the sound of the gate creaking, and the clanking of the chains would have been unmistakable. No one came, and Donovan set to work.
He brought out the charm that Windham had given him and let it dangle from its chain. He knew that if it was created to react on contact with the bone marrow dust he sought, that he could magnify that reaction and use it to track the proper grave. He’d narrowed it to an area by quick research, but records from that far back were sketchy at best, and not too reliable. The ground that had comprised the cemetery had been a much smaller plot when Father Vargas had served the congregation at the Cathedral of San Marcos, and the maps of the area and of the grave plots were not set in any perspective that made sense in the modern layout.
It didn’t matter. There was only one older area of the graveyard, and of that section a very small portion was reserved for the use of The Church. Using the charm like a dowsing rod, Donovan carefully crept between trees and around low-slung, ornate monuments. He moved steadily toward the center of the older section, and before long he knew he was on the trail. The pendant hung at a forty-five degree angle, defying gravity, and led him onward.
Windham had been right on at least one count. If there were other suitable graves, the pendant would not have reacted so strongly and the search might have taken much longer. It would have shifted from side to side, catching the essence of other possible targets; it did not. The pull of Vargas’ grave was strong and steady.
As he proceeded, he kept a close eye out for any glimmer of approaching light. He didn’t want to be disturbed as he strolled through the garden of the dead, but he also didn’t want to expend any energy that might attract less-earthly attention before it was absolutely necessary. The walls between worlds in Shady Grove were exceptionally thin; he sensed motion just out of the periphery of his sight, but ignored it.
It took nearly twenty minutes, but at last he came to a grave marked by a squat, heavy cross. The cross was ornate; there were some chips missing from the edges, and green mold grew up one side of it and dangled from beneath the arm, but for all of that it was impressive. The ground near the grave was permeated with energy that pulsed with Donovan’s heartbeat. The pendant pulled against the thong holding it out away from his skin, as if it wanted to fly to the stone and become a part of the design. He quietly removed the enhancement he’d added to the charm’s attractive qualities, and tucked it away.
Donovan didn’t hurry. There were mistakes to be avoided, and he intended to steer clear of them all. He walked around the grave in a circle, and began to clear his mind. He measured his steps carefully, and when he finished the first circuit, he immediately began another, carefully walking the same line, placing his feet one in front of the other precisely as he had the first time around. As he continued this, he slowly picked up speed. He drew a small pouch from his pocket. Being certain not to violate the precision of his steps, he opened the pouch. He dangled his hand before him at an angle and very carefully sprinkled the powder on the ground. Where he passed, a tin wall of mist rose. He completed the circuit, stepped within the circle, and closed the pouch.
Donovan didn’t move for several moments. He watched carefully, letting his gaze slide along the base of the mist wall he’d created, but there were no breaks. It was solid, and complete. He placed the powder carefully back in his pocket and drew out another bag. This one was slightly larger. From within he quickly unpacked four small braziers for the compass points, which he placed, filled with scented powder, and lit, each with a short invocation to the archangels, Earth, Fire, Air and Water. The last was spirit, but he would not invoke that name until he was ready to open the grave.
A rustle in the air caught his attention. He glanced up and saw that the crow, Asmodeus, slowly circled within the perimeter. He hadn’t realized the creature had bonded with him so closely in such a short time, but it was good to see him there. It meant the ward was complete, and he could begin; there was no way the crow could have found him unless it had traveled dimensions. The spell he’d just woven cut him off from Shady Grove, and the other graves, but it did considerably more than that. It removed the small plot of ground within the circle from the dimension it normally inhabited and placed it in a sort of limbo, where he could do what he needed to do. The crow had come to him in this other place, and was trapped as surely as those beyond the mist were impeded as long as the circle held. When he was done, he would seal the grave, break the circle and the dimensions would snap back into place.
If someone stood in Shady Grove and stared at the spot where Father Vargas’ grave had been moments before, they would see a mist that clung low and heavy on the ground, and grass. Leaves would blow across the space, and if they stepped on that patch of ground, it would be solid and unmarked. It might be bad if they were still standing there when Donovan released the ward, but it was a chance he had to take. The spell insured privacy, and if he was going to act quickly, he’d need all of that he could manage.
He drew a dagger from his pocket next. It had a large, carved obsidian hilt. This was in the form of a Celtic equal-armed cross. The grip was inside a circular hand guard and required the insertion of one finger through a round gap in the arm of the cross nearest the blade. Donovan plunged it into the earth to one side of the grave and began to slowly draw the blade in a rectangular pattern around the exterior of the space where the coffin rested, presumably six feet down and rotting. He had no way of knowing how large Father Vargas had been, so he allowed for a very large, ornate coffin. It took another ten minutes, but eventually he slid the blade back across the first point where he’d jammed it into the soil.
He lifted it free, held it up before him so that he gazed at the surrounding mist through the circle and the cross, and closed his eyes.
“Father Antoine Vargas,” he said in a firm voice. “Rise and face me. Release the earth, as the earth releases you in turn. “
Donovan leaned in, slammed the blade dead center in the rectangle he’d drawn, and then stepped back quickly. Asmodeus sensed the shift in energies and dove from the air to land with a heavy thump on Donovan’s shoulder.
At first all that happened was a gentle vibration in the ground beneath his feet. He watched intently, and the hilt of the dagger shook slowly, and then faster, as if some unseen hand gripped it beneath the soil and was flailing back and forth with increasing violence. The dagger shimmered as its motion picked up speed, and in only a few moments it reached an odd, thrumming harmonic that matched the vibration from below. Donovan stood very still, though he felt the frequency of the shivering, pulsing energy battering at his thoughts and his heartbeat.
The sod split at the point where the dagger pierced it. The ground rippled outward in four directions, toward the corners of the rectangular pattern he’d drawn. Soil and the grass curled back and something long and dark rose, very slowly, cresting the break in the earth like a huge spacecraft hovering just beyond the curve of the horizon. Where the ground peeled back, it hardened and remained very still.
The casket was worn. Whatever finish had protected it was long eaten away by moisture and worms. For all that, it was amazingly intact. Donovan stepped closer and placed his palms flat on the lid. He spoke softly and curled his thumbs under the lip. With a quick motion he lifted, and the wood parted. There was a groan, and the sound of rotted planks tearing free from one another as ancient glue cracked and the wooden pegs binding the joints of the casket parted with a snap. The lid flipped up and back and Donovan leaned in.
There wasn’t much time. He knew that his opening of the ground in this “between” spot — dragging the bit of earth and the casket out of their own dimension — would attract attention. Any large release of magical force caused ripples and waves, and this was a larger than normal shift. There were plenty of dangers other than human guards and thieving collectors, and most of them were deadly.
He leaned in over the casket and nearly fell back in shock. There were no bones. There was no body. Instead,
