Vintage Soul (35 page)

He brought forth the second object he'd held while Vanessa was being revived.
 
It was a small, dark gold flask.
 
There were no labels or marks on the glass, and it was sealed with a cork, which was in turn held in place by wax dripped over hand-wrapped gold wire.

“I want you to have this,” Johndrow said.
 
He turned to Vanessa, who watched him carefully, as if seeking a sign, or a clue.
 
“We want you to have this,” he corrected himself.
 
“It is a far cry from what that man – Ezzel – would have created.
 
Still…”

“What is it,” Donovan asked.
 
He took the small flask and turned it over a couple of times, watching the dark brown liquid swirl around the inside of the glass.

Johndrow smiled.
 
“You are probably aware of my collection,” he said.

Donovan nodded.

“Even in my collection, this would be rare beyond price,” Johndrow continued.
 
“The cognac in that flask is nearly two hundred years old, and was sealed tightly all that time.
 
Hermetically, I believe is the term.
 
There isn't much – probably four small snifters.”

Donovan stared at the flask and held it more gently.

“That isn't all,” Johndrow said.
 
“May I?”

He held out a hand, and Donovan returned the flask.
 
Johndrow handed it to Vanessa, who grew very still at the touch.
 
She glanced sharply at Johndrow and her fingers tightened momentarily on the neck of the flask.
 
She looked at it again, and then she met Donovan's gaze.”

“You will have a part of me,” she said, handing it back and letting her fingers linger over his as he took it.
 
“My blood.
 
There is a very small amount, a few drops, I believe, mixed with the liquor.”

“It is very old,” Johndrow said softly.
 
“Very powerful.
 
Very … subtle.
 
I don't believe that it will bring you immortality, but…if I am correct, it will lengthen your stay on this plane considerably.
 
A century?
 
Perhaps more?”

He slipped around behind Vanessa and drew her close against him.
 
He rested his chin on her shoulder and added.
 
“I think you will find the taste…intoxicating.”

Donovan shivered and tucked the flask very carefully into one of the many deep pockets of his jacket.
 
As he did so, he whispered a small charm of protection to prevent breakage.
 
It was a treasure beyond anything he'd expected.

“There are those,” Vanessa said, peeling free of Johndrow as those to either side snuffed the candles, and plunged them into shadow, “who say that a vampire has no soul.
 
They say it is forfeited at the time of our transformation, and that we walk this world as hollow shells without spirit.”

Donovan didn't answer.
 
He felt her take his arm and turn him gently toward the door, leading him from the room. As they stepped into the hallway, she leaned very close and ran her tongue up the side of his throat to the lobe of his ear.
 
She whispered then, words meant for him alone.

“I do not believe this.
 
Our souls are liquefied and run through our veins.
 
They become very thin, and each time we refresh the blood a part of something new joins itself with what remains of the soul and refreshes it.
 
You have a part of me now, a part of my soul.
 
It is a very fine vintage…drink it in good health, and think of me.”

Then they were stepping into Johndrow's outer room, and one of Stine's security gnomes stepped forward to greet them.

“See Mr. DeChance to the garage,” Johndrow said.
 
“Have the driver take him wherever he'd like to go.”

“Just outside will be fine,” Donovan said, suddenly very weary, and ready to be home.
 
“I can get where I am going more quickly on my own.”

They watched as he turned away and followed the short, gnarled woman into the hall.
 
When they were out of site, his guide turned.

“I thought you might like the last piece of the puzzle,” she said softly.

Donovan frowned, wondering what she meant.
 
She took three steps down the hall and stopped, and then turned seven times.
 
A shimmering pattern emerged on the wall and Donovan gasped in surprise.

“We didn't know it was there,” she explained.
 
It was apparently built in without Mr. Johndrow's knowledge -- and whoever did it sold that information to Ezzel.
 
He was out of here and gone before Johndrow even reached the hall.
 
It leads to the garage below, among other places.
 
We've sealed it properly, and now we control access.”

Donovan shook his head in disbelief.
 
He'd thought Ezzel must have used some amazingly powerful enchantment to invade this place, and the answer was now as obvious as it was simple.
  
Someone had been planning to rob Johndrow all along.
 
The penthouse had never been fully secure.

The small woman stepped aside, and Donovan entered the opening, which shimmered closed behind him.
 
He stepped out of the familiar alley across from his brownstone, and smiled wearily. The portal closed silently behind him and he crossed to his door, the flask rolling gently over his hip, the promise of it burning like fire.

When Donovan entered his apartment, he noticed several things.
 
There was a fire burning.
 
Cleo was curled up on his desk, eying the old crow, Asmodeus, who was perched on one of the upper bookshelves and glaring back down at the cat, and Amethyst sat in his armchair waiting for him.
 
She was reading a book, which she put aside with a smile.

He stepped closer to her, and she stood.
 
As she did so, she let her arms drop, and the silk robe she wore slid over her shoulders and dropped to the chair.
 
She approached him, long red hair tumbling free over her soft skin and her eyes sparkling.
 
There were crystals glittering in her hair and as he stared at them he somehow lost track of seconds, and she was in his arms, pressing her warm lips to his.
 
He blinked and drew her close.

“Wait…” he said softly.

She pulled back, pouting, and he turned to the bar along the wall.
 
He drew out the small flask and placed it reverently on the bar, and then he chose two clear crystal snifters from the rack.
 
He unwound the gold wire carefully and pulled it free of the wax seal, which he sliced evenly with the tip of one fingernail.
 
Then, very slowly and carefully, he slid the cork from the top of the flask.

Amethyst watched him in silence.
 
He poured the liquid equally into the two large snifters.
 
He laid the empty flask aside, turned, and offered her one glass.
 
She smiled at him almost quizzically, then accepted it and sniffed.

“My god,” she whispered.
 
“What is this?”

“
Cognac
,” he replied, taking a sip and wrapping his arm around her shoulder.
 
He turned her slowly until she was pointed at the door to his bedroom.
  
“Cognac and vintage soul.”

Book I of the DeChance Chronicles – Available in eBook & Unabridged Audio

The park was quiet.
 
Clouds scudded across the last remnant of the sunset, obscuring the muted reds and
golds
that clung to the skyline.
 
The hum of street lamps kicking to life brought dim, yellowed illumination to the night, but it did little to ease the menace of the encroaching shadows.
 
Instead it shaped them and drew them out in elongated patterns on the rolling hills and small forested patches of Santini Park.
 
The hint of a storm crackled in the evening air, bringing the heavy, water and ozone scent of thunderstorm and the soft flicker, far off over the ocean, of lightning fingers stretching down toward the rolling waves.

On the East side of the park, other shadows moved.
 
They slipped from alleys, slid from between parked cars and out of the darkened doorways of decayed apartment buildings and dingy warehouses.
 
Eyes, teeth, jewelry and blades glimmered softly in the dying light.
 
They crossed the street stealthily, entered the park in silence, and disappeared into its depths.
 
No words were spoken, but there was fluidity to their combined motion, and purpose.
 
They entered like a horde of vermin and disappeared into the darkness.

Moments later the silence was shattered by the thrumming roar of a single engine.
 
It wasn't the purr of a sports car, or the roar of V-8 power, but the steady throb of a large V-twin, powerful and throaty.
 
The echo of that sound resonated through the park, caromed off buildings and reverberated in the depths of alleys.
 
The sound multiplied and grew, challenging the distant voice of the thunder for dominance of the night.
 
The first bike slid down Holley St. and into sight at the edge of the park.
 
Its single headlight sliced through the blackness.
 
The rider rolled to a stop, the bike's polished tank and chrome reflecting the weak light of the street lights.
 
He pushed the kickstand down and stepped off.
 
He left the engine running.

Black hair swept over his shoulders, tied back with a silver clasp that caught the light when he moved.
 
The clasp was a spider, long legs twined about his pony-tail tightly.
 
His eyes were small chips of blue ice.
 
His chest was bare beneath a cut-sleeve denim vest, faded and criss-crossed with stains and patches, chains and memories.
 
He was lean and strong, long muscled legs beneath tight jeans ending in scuffed engineer boots ringed by a leather strap, decorated with chipped conches.
 
From his belt a long knife swung, slapping lightly against his thigh.

He stood for a long time, bike leaning on its stand, the engine throbbing.
 
He swept the park with a cold gaze that seemed able to cut through the shadows.
  
Nothing moved but leaves sliding quickly across the grass, caught in the grip of the approaching storm.
 
There was no sound but the bike, and the whisper of wind through the trees.

Snake waited another moment.
 
He wanted to see them, to know they were there, and where, but he also knew that wasn't going to happen.
  
They'd drawn him here, and there was no choice but to get on with it. He reached over and killed his engine.

He raised his arm and waved it in a slow arc.
 
The sudden silence that had fallen when the engine died was broken by the soft throb of more engines.
 
They ground to life and then rose to a sudden roar.
 
The darkness was criss-crossed by brilliant slices of light, dispersing as the bright headlight beams sliced through it, and reforming as each passed, single file.
 
They parked in diagonals, lining the edge of the park.
 
There were dozens of them, each pausing for a moment, canting to one side to catch on its kick stand, then falling to silence.

The storm crept slowly closer, just off the coast and heading inland.
 
The lightning flashes grew in brilliance and frequency. Snake stepped forward onto the soft turf of the park common, and the others filled in behind him, row upon row, tattered jeans, dark eyes, their weapons, belts, and leather gleaming with steel and silver.
 
Each wore a sleeveless denim vest with the club's colors, blue and green dragons, whirling in a tight 69, devouring their own tails.
 
The top bar simply stated the obvious: "Dragons MC".
 
The bottom rocker, lined in blue, read "San Valences, CA."

A tall, dark-skinned man stepped up beside Snake and scanned the shadows.
 
Vasquez was leathered and worn, years of sweat and road-dust sun baked into his skin; his arms were corded with muscle born of hard labor.
 
His eyes were deep brown, nearly black, and his hair blew free and shaggy about his shoulders.

"They're out there, Snake," he said softly.
 
"I smell them."

Snake nodded, not speaking.
 
He breathed slowly and gathered his energy.
 
He sensed them too, shifting through the shadows.
 
Los Escorpiones
.
 
The thought of the young, violent Latinos made his skin crawl, but he knew he could show no sign of fear or weakness.
 
The others could spare a moment to think of how their hearts were growing chilly and empty, or how their lives were riding on the actions of a few short moments.
 
Snake had no such freedom.
 
If he faltered, their courage would break, and they would be finished. Leadership always came with a price.