Vintage Soul by David Niall Wilson Page A

he ran straight at Vein.
    Young and foolish as he was, Vein was fast.   He didn’t back away from Donovan’s attack, but instead leaped straight up.   It was a graceful motion, like you’d expect to see in a bad kung fu movie, the leap taking him so high, and the whirling motion of his body so precise, that it gave the impression of slow motion.   As Vein hurtled back to the floor of the alley and landed with his booted feet spread, already running forward, that illusion was shattered.  
    There was still one black-suited vamp between Donovan and the mouth of the alley.   The shield of light divided them, but Vein was coming up fast from behind.   Donovan knew he had to think fast, and make no mistakes.   He didn’t have the strength or speed his adversaries could bring to bear, and he had to make a quick decision now and pray it was the right one.   It would be hard to explain to Johndrow and the elders how he’d been ambushed and taken down by their own whelps in an alley.
    Vein was moving much more quickly than he was, and Donovan knew he had no chance of reaching the other vamp blocking his way before he was caught from behind.   With an odd gesture of his left hand, Donovan wove a character in the air.   He spoke the name Pachacamac, and relaxed absolutely.   He closed his eyes, blanked his mind and focused, and his body dropped like a stone to the floor of the alley.
    Vein was moving so quickly that stopping wasn’t even an option.   He roared over the point where Donovan had stood and plowed into his follower full tilt.   The other cried out and raised his hands, but it was far too late to provide any protection.   The two crashed to the ground and fell, thrashing and fighting to untangle themselves.
    Donovan floated within the stone and brick and soil beneath them.   He felt the earth elemental’s hold tighten, and with a quick mental push disassociated himself.    While he lacked the innate agility and strength of the undead, Donovan was not weak.   He arched his back, executed an admirable kip up and scanned the alley.
    Vein was back on his feet, though his companion still sat on the ground, shaking his head.   Their glasses had been knocked free, and Vein stared down the alley at Donovan in unfettered rage.   His eyes glowed red and predatory in the dim light.   Donovan glanced back toward the dead end and saw that any ill effects from his crystal charm had worn off.   He had a decision to make.   He could try getting past these three, who didn’t seem overloaded in the brains department, and find his way up or through the walls at the far end of the alley, or he could give Vein a second chance, hope he got lucky, and sprint for the streets.   Angry as they might be, Vein and his “posse” wouldn’t dare to follow if Donovan made it onto the crowded streets.   It would draw too much attention.
    â€œThat was a mistake, magic man,” Vein said.   His voice was low now, grating and dry like it had been filtered through charcoal.   “I wanted to talk, now I ‘m going to kill you.”
    This time there was no mad rush.   Vein and his companion, who’d finally managed to get back on his feet, not bothering to brush off the dust of the alley floor, strode purposefully toward the phone booth.   Donovan considered slipping back in and dialing, but he knew they were too fast.   One or more of them would be in the booth with him, and in their mental state even the thought of the bouncers waiting inside wouldn’t be enough to deter them from ripping out his throat.   That meant he’d have to kill them, and he didn’t want to explain that to Johndrow any more than he wanted to explain his own defeat.  
    From the other side, the three remaining undead mimicked Vein’s slow approach.   They spread out, like a dark curtain, so the only open space was the