Vintage Soul by David Niall Wilson Page B

blank wall directly in front of the phone booth.   Donovan considered this, and frowned.   He hadn’t brought as much protection as he should have, and hadn’t even considered his present danger, considering it was Johndrow who’d hired him.   The danger was very real, though, and he had to think quickly, or he might not live to get back to his office and the charms he should have brought with him in the first place.
    He could try the wall.   If he were quick enough, he might summon another elemental, slip into the brick, and take his chances in its arms until they reached the far side of the wall.   He didn’t like it.   The Elementals were unpredictable in allegiance, and in strength.   If he caught the wrong one at the wrong time, he would spend the rest of his days embedded in that wall, the essence of his spirit joining with the elemental, and that would be the end.   It wasn’t the death he had in mind for himself – not that he’d give his preference much thought.
    He could try levitating, but with the speed and agility of his attackers, he wasn’t certain he could get out of reach before they scaled the walls and dragged him back down.
    â€œNot so funny now, are you magic man?” Vein asked.   His smile widened, and Donovan saw the fangs fully extended and the dripping, drooling hunger fairly foaming from that yawning, arrogant mouth.
    Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck.   His skin was clammy, and he knew his heartbeat thundered in the ears of his attackers.   Even if they wanted to stop, it was beyond that point now.   He knew enough about vampires to understand that, civilized as they appeared; they were a slave to the hungers that defined them.   Once certain limits were reached, and exceeded, there was no turning back.
    Then it hit him.   Without waiting to gauge the wisdom of his actions, Donovan concentrated on his heart.   He dropped his breathing into rhythm with that pulsing beat, and he incanted a short, monotonous chant, being very careful to match the inflection of his voice to that steady pumping of blood through his veins.
    The vampires didn’t hesitate, they surged forward.   Vein’s grin widened and his eyes filmed red.   Donovan chopped one hand through the air, as if slicing his own words into equal pieces, and there were two of him standing in front of the phone booth.   The vampires hesitated, mesmerized by the motion of his hand and the pounding of his heart, which he continued to magnify through the deep, sonorous accompaniment of the chant.   He chopped his hand down again, and again.   The six undead stood stock still, staring from one to the other of four flickering images.   Donovan slipped forward, and before they realized what he was going to do, he joined the other three versions of himself in a slow, whirling dance.
    â€œKill them all,” Vein whispered.   His voice was hoarse, and his gaze flicked first one way, then the other.   The pounding heartbeat confused his senses, and with it magnified to such intensity, it was impossible to attribute it to one, or the other of the dancing Donovan DeChance figures whirling before his eyes.
    Donovan knew it was only a diversion, and he knew it wouldn’t stop, or fool them for more than a moment.   As he reached the outer edge of the ring of images, he broke out around the far side of the slower vamp to Vein’s left.   As he moved, the images wavered, and seconds later there was nothing but a scent of acrid smoke floating in the center of the alley.  
    Donovan skirted the wall as closely as he could and sprinted for the mouth of the alley.   He knew he had a second, maybe two, before Vein would recover.   Maybe a bit longer for the others, but their leader was sharper than he’d first appeared, certainly more formidable than Donovan had given him credit for.
    There was no sound, but he knew