“There are glasses on the small shelves beneath the table. Please help yourself. The letter itself should not take long, because we don’t know enough to drag it out. Short and simple.”
There were no more questions, or concerns. The moment Johndrow pressed pen to paper, the others in the room withdrew into their own little worlds, already planning upgrades to their personal security, or trips out of the country. All things considered, it had been one of the shortest and least difficult meetings the group had ever conducted, and Johndrow was pleased. He knew he didn’t have the resources to hunt Vanessa down in time, and he was fairly certain that he didn’t have the power to do anything about it if he did. He’d met DeChance only once, but it had been enough to impress him.
He signed the letter, passed the paper and pen to Joel, who then slid it in front of Ligaya, who signed and sent it around the table. By the time the ward lifted and the short, fierce-eyed gnomish security woman opened the door, the letter was sealed, and Ligaya laid it in her hands without a word. The woman glanced at the name, nodded curtly, and was simply…gone.
Johndrow watched in silence as the others filed out of the room and off down the corridor to the elevators. He lingered, and Joel walked him to the door.
“Don’t worry old friend,” Joel said. “We’ll find her. If it can be done, he can do it.”
“I know,” Johndrow replied. “I know. He turned to Joel. “Will you hunt with me tonight? If I don’t tear the throat out of something, I’m going to be quite insane, and it has been a very long time since I spent a night on the street.”
Joel glanced sidelong at Ligaya, who nodded with a worried smile.
“Certainly,” Joel said. “It has been too long.”
Johndrow nodded and started down the corridor. Joel handed his jacket to Ligaya and followed. Moments later, as she stood watching them, the jacket clutched in her arms, the elevator door closed, and they dropped slowly to the ground floor.
Ligaya stared at the elevator doors a moment longer, then turned abruptly and headed deeper into the bank complex. “Be safe,' she whispered. “And be back soon.”
In a small office on the 18 ^ th floor, the small, gnomish woman held the letter and its envelope to the lit end of a black candle. Smoke curled up from the dancing flame and filled the room, making breathing difficult. She paid no attention to this, concentrating her will on the point where paper met fire. As the envelope caught, she whispered two words.
“Donovan DeChance.”
The paper caught, burned in an instant to black, dusty ash, and before it fell, she blew on it. The ash formed itself into a cloud, took substance and form and spread. A dark wraith-like form stood staring back at her, then turned, and with a soft “pop” was gone.
THREE
Donovan DeChance sat in a comfortable chair, beside a very warm fire and stared out over the city skyline, thinking. On his lap a sleek, silver-white cat with dark leopard-like spots purred contentedly, her feet asprawl and her tail dangling over the arm of the chair. The cat was a large creature, an Egyptian Mau named Cleopatra, and while Donovan watched the glitter of the stars, she watched the firelight dance through the ice cubes in the whiskey tumbler he held, contemplating her chances in an attack.
The room was an organized jumble. Heavy wooden bookshelves lined the walls from the floor to just below the ten foot ceiling. A rolling ladder clung to the face of the shelves, about halfway down one wall, but its progress was impeded on either side by cartons and stacks of more books waiting to be shelved. They would wait a long time, as not an inch of empty space could be found on any of the shelves. It was a problem, and Donovan knew he’d have to address it soon, or be pushed out the front door of his own home by the sheer volume of clutter.
A short altar stood in an alcove in one corner of the room. This, too, was cluttered. It held an ornate, silver goblet in the form of a robed woman with demons clutching her feet, a crystal ball on a wooden stand carved of a single branch of olive wood, a book open somewhere near the middle and marked with a heavy gold-colored ribbon, a small brazier black with ashes, and a dagger. The dagger was long and curved. Its handle glittered with jewels and was trimmed in four metals, gold, silver, copper and platinum. These were woven equally into a pattern that circled the hilt in concentric rings.
Charts and maps dangled and jutted from the shelves. A few of these were rolled, or folded, but still others were attached to the wood by tacks or small nails. One shelf held an assortment of divination equipment, Tarot cards, joss sticks for reading the I Ching, a small geomancy box and a leather bag of stone runes. In a small jeweled case a set of animal bones rested at odd angles.
Still another shelf had a small rack attached beneath it where talismans, crystals, pendants and charms dangled. There did not seem to be any particular order to them, and there was no index or label to differentiate one from the other. Their chains and thongs were tangled together, snarled hopelessly and all-but-forgotten.
Two doorways opened out of this main room, which served as office, library, and sitting room. One was the hallway that led to the two bedrooms and the bath in the rear of the apartment, the other led to his small kitchen. Both were separated from the main room by heavy wooden doors, and both were closed. A third door, larger and more ornate, led to the hallway beyond and, in turn, to the world below and beyond.
There was little light. A few feet to the side of where he sat in his arm chair stood a battered old desk. It was the one uncluttered horizontal surface in the room. On it sat a computer, a telephone, a pendulum dangling from a small metal stand, and a single lamp. The lamp was old. Its base was carved metal in the form of a tree. The tree had ten branches, and from each of these a small and very ancient coin dangled. A rod ran up the center to a spiked finial, which screwed down to hold the fragile slag-glass shade in place. The glass itself was thick and lustrous. It was violet, giving off an odd, soothing radiance similar to that of a weak black light. Around the rim of the shade, formed of inlaid bits of colored glass, ran the twenty-two letters of the Hebrew alphabet.
The lamp, as most of the other objects in the room, had been a gift received in return for services rendered. Also, as was true of most of the other objects, it served more than its obvious purpose.
Donovan raised his whiskey tumbler and took a sip. As he did so, the violet light from the lamp pulsed. It flared more brightly for a moment, and then returned to its normal glow. Donovan turned and stared at it with a slight frown. He placed his glass on the table beside his seat, shooed Cleo from his lap, and stood.
He was six-foot three inches tall with broad shoulders and an athletic build. His long dark hair swept back over his shoulders in waves, and when the light caught his eyes, they flashed a violet shade of their own. His clothing, dark pants, a rather ornate jacket over a shirt open at the neck to reveal several chains that disappeared beneath, and dark, polished boots might have seemed eccentric or affectatious on most men, archaic on others, but not on Donovan. He wore them like a second skin. He didn’t move quickly, but his motions were deceptively graceful. The lamp pulsed a final time, and then settled back to its normal violet hue. Donovan, who had crossed the room in that space of time, reached for the ornate knob of his outer door.
Behind him, Cleo leaped back to the seat of his chair and bounded up to the back cushion. She seated herself and began to wash her face casually. Donovan heard the thump as she came to rest, and knew she was watching. It was good to know she had his back.
A soft chime rang, and Donovan opened the door before the sound could die. He liked to have the advantage over visitors, and knowing they were at the door before they rang the bell was one method of achieving this. This particular time, his effort was wasted.
A very thin apparition stood in the hall outside the door, and he — it — held a thick, ornate envelope in one hand. At least Donovan assumed it was a hand. The robes concealed the messenger’s features, so that it was impossible to tell if it was a man, or a woman, or if there was anything below the billowing cloak at all. Donovan thought he caught a flash where the eyes should be, but it was impossible to be certain. The same was true of the point where the envelope dangled from the creature’s arm. If there was a hand clutching it, that hand was concealed beneath the dark material, and Donovan was fairly certain that, either way, he just didn’t want to know.
“Good evening,” he said. He held the door open slightly, filling the gap with his own form. The messenger said nothing. It wavered slightly and extended the envelope.
