placed near the middle of the casket, and supported on all sides by ragged velvet, a large ceramic urn rested. It was sealed by red wax along the seam of its lid, and the sides were decorated in very complex and well-rendered patterns, depicting the lives of the saints. He hadn’t expected the body to have been burned — it wasn’t something The Church did, particularly not back in the days of Vargas’ death. There must have been more to the story that Windham had failed to discover, or that he’d kept to himself for his own reasons.
In any case, there was no time to worry over it. The dust he needed could be extracted from the ashes, and this actually made his task simpler. He’d intended to remove the dust and seal it away immediately, but now things had changed. He could simply take the urn, replace the empty casket, and be on his way.
He gripped the urn and lifted. At first it resisted. The cloth was very old, and had grown moist, despite the sealed casket. It had expanded and begun to rot around the base of the urn, forming a sort of gluey substance. He yanked again, and it came free. There was a stench of wet, rotten cloth and damp earth. Donovan placed the urn on the ground. He stepped around the hole in the ground, gripped the lid, which hung precariously from its ancient hinges, and heaved it up and over so that it fell back across the casket with a dull thud.
The dagger remained imbedded in the ground. There was no hesitation in the descent. The coffin snapped back to where it belonged as if held on some great elastic strap that had just been released. The earth rolled back over the top with a roar. In less than the span of time it takes to draw in a quick breath, the ground was smooth and unbroken. The implosion of force left Donovan momentarily stunned, but he recovered quickly. When the earth folded back to allow the coffin to rise, it had curled over, and he was able to grasp the blade firmly and slide it free.
As he did so, he took half a step back. He didn’t want to risk stepping through the circle and breaking the ward. He sensed forces moving about him. Voices whispered just beyond the ring of mist, dark sibilant voices speaking in a myriad of forgotten tongues. Something sizzled and snapped, like the strike of a bolt of lightning. He dove across the re-sealed grave and reached for the urn, already forming the words in his mind that would protect him as he burst through the mist and broke the circle.
He reached down and his fingers brushed the surface of the urn, but another pair of hands was a fraction quicker. They were sheathed in dark, skin-tight gloves. Donovan cried out and tried to snatch the urn, but at that moment another dark gloved hand shot through the mist. This one connected solidly with Donovan’s chin, and he staggered back. There was a hiss like the release of steam from an iron, and the mist surrounding him was sucked suddenly from the air. Donovan called out the words of protection and prayed they weren’t too late.
The mist cleared, and he turned to see dark shapes hurrying away toward the back gate of the cemetery. One of them held the urn clutched tightly to his chest. They moved with eerie speed. He poised himself to follow, recovering his balance quickly. The crow, which had remained on his shoulder throughout this encounter, took off with a screech and flurry of wings. Donovan cursed, came up against the stone cross that marked Vargas’ now empty grave with one knee and dropped to the ground in pain.
He staggered to his feet and started to limp away from the grave, forgetting the braziers, still burning with incense and all the evidence of his presence. He’d intended to be very certain there was nothing new to draw attention to the cemetery, but the sharp sound of a round being chambered drew him up short. He raised his hands and turned, very slowly.
An old man stood, watching him across two graves marked only by stones set into the earth, his hand steadied on the outstretched wing of a marble angel. The barrel of the gun was leveled at Donovan’s chest. The old man’s hand shook slightly. He was as frightened as his captive was irritated.
“You just stand there, real still,” the man said. “I’m going to pull the radio off my belt and call my partner over here, and he’s going to call the police. You’re going to stay right where you are until they get here. This is private property, and you’re trespassing.”
The man glanced down at the still smoking braziers.
“What did you think you were going to do? Raise the dead?”
Under other circumstances, Donovan would have laughed. He kept his hands up over his head, and met the man’s gaze levelly.
“You don’t want to shoot me, friend,” he said softly. “You don’t want to shoot anyone. I’m not hurting anything here.”
“I was here a few years back,” the guard replied, not lowering his weapon. “I saw what folks who deal with this kind of thing,” he reached out with one booted foot and kicked over the brazier closest to him, “can do. Don’t tell me there’s no harm in it, I know better. Don’t give me a reason to pull this trigger.”
Donovan cursed under his breath. There was no time for this. It was probably already too late to catch whoever had stolen the urn, but he might still be able to follow their back trail. He still had the amulet necessary to complete the deal — unless they had one of their own.
There was a sudden rush of sound. Something cried out, very close, and very loud, and instinctively Donovan hit the dirt. The. 45 fired, and the bullet whipped just above him. There was a grunt, and a cry of surprise, but Donovan didn’t stop to see what had happened. He knew Asmodeus had returned, but he didn’t know how much the bird had disrupted the guard’s concentration. He rolled to the side, leaped to his feet, and took off at a dead run for the back gate. A few moments later he heard a feeble call to stop, but he ignored it. The guard had apparently come to his senses and realized he’d probably better not shoot someone for the crime of trespassing, particularly not in the back.
It was only a matter of moments until the man’s partner showed up, but it didn’t matter. The gate was not only still unlocked, but the others who’d passed through had tossed the chain and lock aside and left one half of the huge gates hanging open. Donovan cut through the gap and headed back down the path toward the old barn. The crow flew just above his head and a couple of feet behind. It cried out to him, but for the moment he ignored it. He knew it was there, just as he’d known, when the guard was struck. Twice now Asmodeus had come to his aid. Donovan would have preferred Cleo’s company — he was more familiar with her, and she’d been with him for so long the two of them often acted as a single entity, but the crow had a way of growing on a person.
In the barn, Donovan pulled out the crystal lens he’d used in the old church where Cornwell had died. He glanced through it, holding it to either side of the gateway he’d used to reach the place. There was nothing. No trace of any passing but his own. He stood there for a moment, his mind racing, trying to decide what to do next.
Asmodeus settled on his shoulder, and dug in suddenly with taloned claws. Donovan cried out and turned to stare at the creature. Their eyes locked in a steady gaze, and a wave of vertigo hit that nearly knocked him to his knees.
He flew. He swerved to avoid trees, but the motion wasn’t his own. Donovan rode Asmodeus’ mind through the broken wall of mist. Two figures fled through the graves, dancing around trees and sprinting with uncanny quickness toward the back gate of the cemetery. They slipped the chain free without hesitation and dashed off down the trail. He thought they would turn off toward the barn, following the old trail, but they didn’t.
The two turned, glanced once over their shoulders, and then turned off the old deserted road on the far side from where Donovan had entered it. The ground dropped away quickly into a ditch, and they followed this, though the earth was damp, and their feet left deep, squishy imprints in passing. Ahead a large culvert loomed. The two ducked their heads and disappeared inside without a pause.
The crow dove after them, dizzying Donovan with the rush of air and the impossibly swift passage of images. They dove past the entrance to the huge concrete pipe, whirled in the air, dove back and plunged into darkness. Donovan wanted to scream, but before he could even regain his breath, they soared out the far side. It only cut under a secondary road, a drainage pipe for water. There was no sign of the two, and he knew in that instant it was another gateway.
Asmodeus released Donovan’s shoulder and took flight again. Shaking his head, he turned to follow the crow back out the door of the barn. He heard voices, and saw bobbing lights down the trail, but he avoided the guards easily as he wound his way up to the abandoned road. By the time he reached it, slipping from tree to tree as swiftly as he could without breaking into the open, they had already turned onto the side road toward the barn. He heard them discussing what to do next, but he didn’t wait around to find out if they had the courage to visit the barn on their own, or if they planned to call the police.
Donovan crossed the road and slid down into the ditch. He slowed himself, carefully turning seven times
