A Midnight Dreary - Volume 5 of The DeChance Chronicles

Sample Chapters Part 2

Chapter Two

The shift was not subtle. One moment Donovan sat across from Cleo, with Amethyst and Bullfinch to either side, and the next, he was walking, climbing the steps to the long porch that fronted The Lake Drummond Hotel. Immediately in front of him, the door to the tavern waited, light and sound leaking out where it was slightly ajar. There was laughter, and the sound of clinking glass. The air tasted cleaner—fresher—than he remembered, and when he glanced back, he saw that Cleo paced at his heels.

He sensed the others, like a scent on the breeze, or a cool brush of—something—on his shoulder—but they were not visible, as he'd known they wouldn't be. He and Cleo had lived this moment before, and it had been odd then—now he knew why.

He pushed through the door and into the tavern. A few of the customers looked up to see who had entered, and then a few more. Donovan was a tall man, and his long hair, tied in back, was not a common style for the times. With his full-length dark coat and the cat, nearly the size of a bobcat, following behind, it was difficult not to attract attention.

He breathed a few soft words, and a mist floated out to join the cigar and pipe smoke. If any noticed, they gave no sign, and, after the smoky filament-like cloud had settled, one by one, the eyes of the other patrons slid to one side, or the other, ignoring him. Donovan walked straight through the center of it all toward the table in the back. It sat directly beneath a window, giving a view of the Intracoastal waterway, and the Great Dismal Swamp beyond.

A man sat at the table, thin, with dark hair. He was writing on the top sheet of a sheaf of papers. Donovan smiled. Edgar was just as he remembered, and he knew only too well what words would be found on the paper, because he had carried that page, carefully folded and tucked into a very old copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales, for most of his adult life. Except—at this moment, he had also yet to acquire it. The thought gave him just a moment's vertigo. He took a deep breath and stepped up to the table. Edgar Allan Poe glanced up, and Cleo leaped, planting herself firmly in the chair on the opposite side of the table from the author. She rolled into a ball and regarded the two men with mild interest.

Donovan smiled, and bowed with a flourish.

"Good evening," he said. My name is Donovan. Donovan DeChance. I'm afraid I don't know anyone here, and I don't know why, but you have an air of familiarity, as if I should know you."

"Edgar. Edgar Poe," the man replied. "I don't believe that we've met, but you are welcome to share my table. It can get busy here of an evening, and a little rough, depending on the crowd. Your cat seems already to have made herself at home."

"I'll confess that's another reason I felt I had to introduce myself. She isn't generally attracted to strangers."

"Have a seat Mr. DeChance," Edgar said. "Have some whiskey. It's my last night here, and I was feeling a little down. It's been an odd week, and I could use some company."

Donovan bowed again and sat across the table next to Cleo. He faced Edgar and smiled. It was an eerie sensation, the déjà vu hanging heavy in the air—so heavy he was sure the other man sensed it as well. And—did it have to be the same? Could he, knowing what he knew of what Edgar himself had done with his words, change the past?

He took the bottle on the table and poured them each a drink, then leaned back. He didn't have to remember what had been said, the words flowed naturally.

"I'm not sure why," he said, "but I have the strangest urge."

"What on earth could that be?" Edgar asked.

"There is something about you," Donovan said slowly, "that gives me the notion you would tell a good story. Something with magic, and romance; something intriguing to erase the dust of the road."

Edgar stared at him. Beyond the man's shoulder, a dark, winged form shot past the window, circled back, and came to rest on the sill. Donovan glanced back, nodded, and returned his attention to Edgar.

"In the swamp," Edgar began, "there is a lake. They call it Lake Drummond, and I'm told it has deep, dark secrets to share."

"Told?" Donovan said.

"All stories," Edgar said with a smile, "begin with a grain of truth; even our dreams."

Donovan sat back and sipped his drink, and Edgar began to talk.

The story was as remarkable as Donovan remembered. It was about a crow named Grimm, and how he had actually been a raven, disguised as a crow, carrying the spirit of a stolen princess from someplace far away. It was a story straight out of a fairy tale penned by its own namesake; how Eleanor MacReady—Lenore to her friends—had been drawn to release the dark sorceress Estrella, from a tree on the banks of Lake Drummond, where she had been trapped by a swamp witch named Nettie.

Donovan knew Nettie well enough, having been saved by her himself in a future that suddenly seemed very distant, and now he knew why this story—so long ago—had such a familiar flavor. Finally, as the tale drew to its close, he heard once more how Lenore herself had been trapped, and the princess spirited away to some obscure place—with the only clue to its whereabouts the name "Rathburg." Edgar—seemingly walking through dimensions—had come to a library that he knew, and did not know, where he'd donned a coat and hat that he'd never owned. It was a story worthy of a master, and Donovan knew he sat across from such a man—such a storyteller—knew the tales and poems that would come, and how they would leave their mark on the world. He also knew how the body of one Edgar Allan Poe would be found, sitting alone on a park bench with absolutely no explanation for his death.

The moon had risen to her throne in the center of the night sky and begun to dip to the horizon by the time Poe finished. When he was done, he pulled a folded paper from the pocket of his shirt and handed it across the table to Donovan.

"That was remarkable," Donovan said. "What is this?"

"I'll ask you not to read it until I have gone," Edgar said. "It isn't a final copy; I still have work to do. Some truth requires concealment beneath several veils before being revealed to the world. Sometimes even the veils are insufficient."

Donovan did not question this. He tucked the paper into the inside pocket of his jacket, and he stood.

"I am glad to have met you, Edgar Poe," he said. "It was an amazing story, filled, I believe, with more grains of truth than most. It is tragic and shows a flair for the dramatic that is sorely lacking in most American literature. I suspect that I will see your name again."

"If you are ever near Philadelphia," Edgar said, "you must look me up. You owe me a drink, after all."

Donovan nodded, and bowed. Edgar, without realizing he had done so, mimicked the gesture.

Donovan stared at his companion thoughtfully. He spoke then, words that he had never spoken at their first meeting, words that might, or might not make a difference, but that he felt compelled to utter.

"Perhaps," he said, "I will seek you out in that library of yours. As you see, I have brought my own coat—"

Poe stared at him then, almost warily, as if trying to figure out if he was being mocked. Then he straightened, and his eyes cleared. "Have a good journey, Mr. DeChance," he said. "Perhaps when next we meet, you'll tell me a story. I believe you must have a bit of the magic about you as well, and I do love a good tale."

Without another word, Poe laid a handful of coins on the table, turned, and left the tavern. Donovan watched him go. He stood, then, knowing he must speak to the bartender and secure accommodations for the night. In that instant, the vision faded. He watched—just for a second—as that past version of himself walked away. Then it was suddenly dark

He closed his eyes, spoke the words of a short incantation, and then, as if to blow the past away like dry leaves, he exhaled, and the world—the present—came to life around him.

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