Vintage Soul by David Niall Wilson Read Free Book Online Page A

fleeing bird.   Donovan saw what was about to happen and let out a hoarse, choked cry.   He sprang forward and concentrated every bit of will power and strength he had to the tips of the fingers of his left hand.   The threads swelled, became strings and then sticky, ropes of energy.   He dove at the fire, ignored the danger, and pressed his seal over the escaping flames.
    Before he reached the hearth, a black flash shot past.   The bird, seeming not to struggle at all with the heavy book, dove into the fire like a black arrow.   Cleo flashed past Donovan in pursuit, and he drove his legs into the floor, launching after her in a headlong dive of his own.    As if aware of its pursuers, the bird gave another great cry and slashed the air with its wings, narrowing itself and diving straight at the heart of the fire.   It disappeared into the rift just as Donovan’s hand pressed the ropy tendrils of his charm to the invisible wall of the ward spell.   There was a bright shimmer, another crackle of energy, and as Cleo bounced off the now solid ward, Donovan leaned into it, seeming to rest against solid air, and sagged weakly, sliding down to sit on the floor.
    He growled in frustration and pounded his hand on the hearth.   There was no sign of the bird, the book, or the flaming face behind it all.   Donovan sat for a moment, regaining his strength.   Cleo shook her head, meowed plaintively, and then crawled into his lap.   Donovan cradled her there, turned, and glanced up at the bookshelves behind him, already certain what he would find – or not find – when he did.
    Two books had slid out and hung precariously over the edge of the shelf.   The space between them, where the journal of Jean-Claude Le Duc had been tucked safely away, was empty.    Donovan rose and deposited Cleo on his armchair, then walked to the bookshelf.   There were scratches in the wood where the bird had scrabbled for purchase, and there were peck marks on the spines of the two volumes on either side.   Donovan frowned.
    Under normal circumstances, even an extremely talented bird would not have been able to slide a book off the shelf and carry it away.   It was too heavy, for one thing.   It had to have been enchanted, or more than a bird to begin with.   He glanced around.
    On the floor at his feet two black feathers rested.   One had been trampled when he launched himself forward at the fireplace, but the other was clean.   Cleo must have come closer to the mark than he’d realized with her first leap.   He gave her an appreciative grin, but the cat was busy washing her left foot and paid no attention to him at all.   She looked up when he lifted the feather from the floor and let out a soft yowl of disapproval.
    â€œI know, Cleo,” Donovan said, carrying the feather back to his desk and returning to his seat.   “I don’t like it either, but what can we do?”
    Donovan stared at the feather for a moment, and then sat up straighter.   He placed it in the center of his desk, where the letter from Johndrow had rested only a few moments before, and set to work.   Within moments he’d set the wards and placed his spell.   It was a long shot, but some essence of the bird, and its master, should still be lingering either in the room, or the fireplace.
    The feather rose, spun lazily in the air, and then pointed at the fireplace.   Donovan rose, stepped around the desk, and gazed in the direction the feather pointed.    He saw nothing, but stepped forward to the grate and glanced back over his shoulder.   The feather jerked once, and then twisted a few degrees to Donovan’s right.   It pointed at the upper right corner of the fireplace grate.   Donovan saw nothing on the metal grate itself, nor had anything dropped to the floor as the bird passed.   He frowned.  
    He placed his hand on the brick wall beside the