They exited through a doorway Donovan had never tried. It brought them into a very short alley between two buildings he didn't recognize. When they stepped onto the street, though, he saw that they were about two blocks from the park he'd seen through Cleo's memory. He stepped out onto the street, kept close to the walls of the line of shops he passed, and moved carefully forward.
As he approached, he saw that there was a fire burning near the center. This park was very close to the line that bordered the Barrio and the city "proper." The police still patrolled it regularly, and Donovan frowned, trying to understand how there could be what amounted to a small bonfire in the center of a city park without drawing notice.
A mist had risen, turning to thick fog at its outer limits, and as he watched, it sifted across the ground and rose into the air. Within moments the park was nothing more than a low-hanging cloud bank from the streets. There were occasional flickers of light from within, where the flames licked higher for a moment, and then died down. Anya Cabrera had effectively erased the small area from the face of the city.
After a few moments, Donovan saw a young man in dark jeans walking down the road from deeper in the Barrio. He wore the colors of Los Escorpiones, and he glanced furtively from side to side. He was obviously not convinced of the privacy of the gathering in the park, or perhaps he feared that Anya Cabrera was as much a danger as an ally. He reached the park, glanced over his shoulder a final time, and then followed the young gang member into the mist.
"She's in there, isn't she, Cleo?" Donovan whispered.
The cat glanced up at him and let out a soft growl. She rubbed against his leg once. He leaned down and patted her head.
"It's time for you to get back," he said. "This is no place for you. I'll get her out of there, and I'll bring her home."
For a moment it seemed Cleo would ignore him. She glared up with feral intensity, and he feared she might dart off on her own through that dark mist. He didn't want to think about what might happen if Anya got control of Cleo. It would be bad for both of them.
Then, without warning, she turned and darted back into the alley. Donovan watched her go. He thought about going in to be sure she got through the portal, then remembered where and how she'd found him, and shook his head. He turned back to the park and concentrated on the problem at hand.
His jacket was lined with pockets and hidden pouches. He never knew where he'd be caught, or in what kind of predicament. No one knew what he carried with him, and he varied his portable 'arsenal' as often as he could, adding new secrets and trying things he discovered in his research. It kept those who knew him off balance.
He still had the amulet Amethyst had given him, but that wasn't going to be enough. It would obscure him from the sight of most, but not all, of those in that park. It would keep any of the dark Loa from discovering him, but he thought it was likely that Anya herself possessed one of the amulets, and he knew for a fact that at least two of Los Escorpiones wore them. That meant he was going to have to find a way to 'disappear' that would work on them all, and even then he was going to have to be very careful. When he'd watched the previous ritual, those wearing the amulets had been vague — like pencil sketches mostly rubbed out, but lingering as gray shadows. That meant they would notice him if he made a wrong move, and if he got in and close to Amethyst, only to be discovered, or captured, they'd end up worse off than they already were.
He rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a small scroll. It was made of parchment, tied with a black ribbon, the knot sealed in wax. He broke the seal, untied the binding and unfurled the small slip of paper.
The spell was powerful, but short-lived. Once he used it, he would be racing against the clock. A quick mental inventory of the other things he had with him told him it was his only chance, so he took a deep breath, and began to read.
The words were in Latin, but not the Latin taught in schools. It was the Latin of a long ago world, pronounced just differently enough to bring the power behind the words to life. He enunciated carefully, reciting each word clearly. When he was done, the parchment burst into flames, but he didn't release it. Though it burned his hands, he held on until the words had drifted to the ground at his feet as ashes. He murmured a final incantation, stepped across those ashes, and disappeared in a wisp of smoke.
As he walked toward the park, he left no shadow. He moved carefully, making as little sound as possible, but at the same time he hurried his steps. The fire in the mist had grown larger and brighter. He had to get in, get Amethyst and get out, and he knew he had to do it quickly. The instructions for creating the scroll had been vague on only one point. They had said the effects did not last long, but the small segment of text that would have explained these limits had been smudged and indecipherable. It was a gamble, and Donovan hated gambling. With a softly mumbled curse, he stepped into the mist and disappeared.
~* ~
Once in the park, Donovan noticed a lot of things at once. There was a fire blazing in the center, and a circle had been drawn around that fire. There was movement and activity everywhere, and he stood very still, taking it all in.
Central to it all was a sort of throne, a carved wooden chair with velvet cushions. It was heavily decorated, its arms carved snakes, and the legs those of some large jungle cat. It was a chair out of a nightmare, a museum quality nightmare. He'd heard of similar pieces, but never actually seen one. Anya Cabrera stood nearby, and he had no doubt that when things got into full swing, she'd be seated on that monstrosity overseeing it all.
Behind and to one side of the chair, another carved item had been added to the circle. Donovan's heart nearly stopped. A large stake, sculpted into scowling faces and strange creatures at the top, had been driven into the ground. The stake was nearly eight feet tall, and Amethyst had been bound to its base. Her arms were drawn around behind, and though she struggled, she was tied carefully and thoroughly.
There were five or six of Los Escorpiones prancing about the pole. They didn't move like men. There was something odd in their gait; their rhythm was erratic and too rapid. Apparently the previous ritual's effects were holding, at least for the moment. Donovan fingered the talisman beneath his jacket. They wouldn't be able to see him, but if he made a miss-step and bumped into one of them, or the spell failed, and someone else was able to make him out, he was in real trouble.
Then he saw something that galvanized him into motion. The younger woman, Kim, was making her way around the circle again, as she had at the junkyard. She danced as she went, and he heard her voice chanting in an odd, rhythmic cadence. Scented smoke wafted up from a series of braziers in her wake. She was recreating the powerful outer protective circle from the junkyard, and if she completed that circle, there was no way for Donovan to be of any help.
Moving as quickly and quietly as possible, he rushed to where the circle was not yet complete and slipped inside. Kim stopped, just for a second, and raised her head. She looked as if she were sniffing the air — an animal with a scent to follow. Donovan stood very still, just inside the circle, and after a moment, she shook her head and moved on.
Donovan turned and circled back the way she'd just come. The only part of the circle that was free of activity was directly behind the stake. He hoped that if Amethyst noticed his presence she could keep it to herself. He had the feeling the element of surprise might be the only weapon left to them, and he had to figure out when, and how, to use it. As he hid himself behind the stake, Kim etched the final lines of the outer circle into the dirt, and the smoke swirled up and around them, blotting out the world.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
By evening, the clubhouse was alive with Dragons from all over the city and some from surrounding areas. There weren't as many as Snake had hoped for, but in the confines of the clubhouse and surrounding yard, they felt like an army. Snake stood aside, watching them, and knew that an army was exactly what he needed. Even that might not do the trick, if Martinez was wrong.
He sipped
his beer and listened to the conversations around him. Nervous fear rippled through their words. Those who'd been in Santini Park remembered what they'd seen, and those who had not asked questions and listened to the stories, half-believing and half skeptical, of how Vasquez had been taken down. They knew why Snake had called them together, and they had come because the colors on their backs and the oaths they had made compelled them, but none of them wanted this fight. Los Escorpiones had always been their enemies — bringing darkness to the Barrio and the streets that was unsettling and somehow unclean. What Anya Cabrera had brought was much worse.
Just after sunset, Martinez reappeared. He had the boy, Salvatore, with him. The kid didn't look like much, but Snake had seen the dragons. He'd felt the energy, and he'd heard what Jake and Enrique had done. There was power here — power that was in some way connected to himself, to those who followed him, and to the ancient, powerful creatures they'd bonded with so long ago. How it could be true, he didn't understand, but Snake wasn't one to argue in the face of reality. It wasn't a question of whether or not the painted dragons were good, or powerful, it was a question of whether he would accept them, and how he would deal with them.
Snake walked over and laid his hand on Salvatore's shoulder.
"So, we finally meet," he said. "My name is Snake."
Salvatore's eyes were wide, but he didn't drop his gaze. "I know you, Senor," he said. "You are El Presidente of the Dragons."
Snake studied the boy's face for a moment, and then turned to Martinez.
"How about you let me and Sal here talk for a few minutes. Alone?"
Martinez nodded, and Snake slid his arm around the boy's slender shoulders and led him back toward the clubhouse. All around them, the Dragons watched, wondering what Snake was up to. Some of them knew Martinez, and they spread what they knew. Others knew of Salvatore, and the dragons he'd painted. They also knew what those dragons had brought — power, magic, and death.
Snake led Salvatore to where Enrique's jacket hung, pinioned to the wall by the blade of a dagger. He reached up and gently smoothed the leather so that the dragon was clearly visible. Though it had lost most of its original magic, the painting was still magnificent.
"You know, Sal," Snake began, "when you first came around and gave Jake that dragon, I thought you were trouble. The Dragons already had a patch, our colors. I was against your fancy dragons, because the dragon symbolizes our brotherhood, our unity. Yours are individuals, like the men who wear them. They send a different message."
Salvatore's knees quivered, but he didn't lower his gaze. He did not want this man to know how truly frightened he was.
"Then,"Snake went on, almost as if he were talking to himself, "I saw how your dragons affected mine, and how they helped me. Your pictures make dragons into powerful, magnificent dreams. I've heard people talk about art all of my life, how it 'moves' them — I never gave it much thought. Somehow your paintings capture a part of the man who wears them and mirror him. You have seen this?"
Still uncertain of what Snake was getting at, Salvatore nodded. He knew that his dragons matched the men who wore them; that is how they came in the visions. He couldn't have painted them any other way.
"We have a battle coming soon," Snake said, turning his gaze to hold Salvatore's. "These are brave men, but we face Los Escorpiones, and this is a battle my dragons won't want to fight. It's not that they lack courage, but this is an old war, and their fire is dying. I want you to help me."
Salvatore's curiosity overcame his fear, giving him the courage to speak. "You wish me to fight?" He asked. "I am no fighter, Senor Snake, only a poor artist."
"No." Snake said quietly, and with conviction. "You are not poor; you are a genius, and I don't want you to fight. I want you to paint my dragon."
Salvatore's heart leaped. Again he was without speech. Such an honor! Almost instantly the dragon began to form in his mind.
"But your jacket," he blurted out, "it has upon it the patch of El Presidente! Where shall I paint the dragon?"
Snake looked at him, a warmth Salvatore had never seen in his eyes. "I don't want it on my jacket, Sal," he said. "These colors have ridden there far too long. I want a banner, a standard; let's call it a flag of honor. And when we go to fight these Escorpiones, I want you to carry that flag into the battle at my side."
Now Salvatore's heart took wings! This was beyond belief. He stuttered several times before the words finally broke free of his tongue. Snake didn't seem to notice.
"Such a dragon I will paint for you that it will seem a thing alive!" He cried. "Beyond my hopes have you honored me. I, Salvatore Domingo Sanchez, will make you proud!"
"I know that, Sal," Snake smiled. "You've got to do this fast, though. It is my men to whom you must bring the life, not my dragon. The battle will happen in tomorrow night, maybe sooner."
"Then I must go and start — I will be ready!" Salvatore said.
There is no reason for you to go, Snake said softly. "I've had them clear a space for you. It's only a small room, but it's warm. There is light, and room to work. We'll make sure you have food. I've talked with Martinez, and with Jake. If you finish my dragon, and you fall, I'll be there to catch you before you hit the floor."
Salvatore stood very still. Despite all his efforts to appear calm and brave, this was too much.
"I…I'll need my paints. Martinez made them, and…"
"I'll send for them," Snake said. "I'll get you anything that you need to do this, and to do it quickly. You and I, we come from different worlds in many ways, but in others we are much the same. This fight — this battle I told you about. It will be for the safety of our homes, and our streets. It isn't just for the Dragons. If Anya Cabrera and her followers get their way, and Los Escorpiones own the streets, there will be nothing standing between them and the rest of the city. Do you know what a cancer is?"
Salvatore nodded.
"That's what they'll become. They'll creep across the city like Black Death, eating everything in their path. I think it's up to me, and to you, to stop them. I think that what we do in the next few hours will define us both. Are you ready for that Sal?"
Salvatore nodded again.
"I will do this thing," he said, "or I will die at your side."
Tears streamed down Salvatore's face, but he ignored them. No one had ever spoken to him as an equal except, on rare occasions, old Martinez. No one had offered him protection, or asked that he stand at their side. No one had ever acknowledged him at all. He met Snake's gaze, and the big man laid a hand on his shoulder and smiled.
Jake wandered over then, and stood on the other side of Salvatore.
"You ready to see your new digs, Sally?" he said. "I guess I sort of told everyone about your shack. Figured you might like a warmer place to crash and someone to talk to now and then. Hope you don't mind."
Salvatore didn't know whether to nod that yes, he wanted to see his new 'digs' or to shake his head that he didn't mind.
"One more thing," Snake said.
Salvatore turned back slowly, because the man's voice was suddenly charged with emotion.
"This dragon you will paint," Snake said softly. "You have seen it? You already know what it will look like, the colors?"
Salvatore swallowed, and nodded.
"You've known you had to paint him all along, haven't you?" Snake asked.
"When they come into my dreams," Salvatore said, "I have no choice. I think if I don't draw them, or paint them, that I will go mad. They call out to me. They have been leading me to another place — a city by an ocean, but not the ocean that I know. I think one day the dragons will take me inside that city, and then I will know why they come to me, and why I must set them free."
"I've dreamed too," Snake said. "I didn't see a city, but in those dreams, I could fly. Give me my wings, Sal. Make it all real."
Then, without another word, Snake turned and left the room.
"Come on Sally," Jake said. "Martinez went to get your
paints. We'd better get you set up."
Salvatore followed Jake down a hallway toward the other end of the building. Jake didn't look back, but as he opened a door at the end of that hall and ushered Salvatore inside, he spoke.
"That man isn't one you want to cross," he said. "If you give him everything you have, he'll stand by you through anything. You paint that dragon, Sally. You paint like you've never painted before. I have the feeling we're going to need all the help we can get."
He left then, and Salvatore stood alone in a small bedroom. There was a shelf on the wall, a small cot with clean sheets, a blanket, and a pillow, a table and two straight-backed chairs. There were no leaks in the walls; it was warm and dry. Salvatore stood still in the very center, and let his tears flow freely.
Then he sat at the table and waited for Martinez, already planning where he'd hang the flag while he worked.
~* ~
The next time the door opened, Snake led Martinez and Jake into the room. Jake had a bundle under one arm, and Martinez carried the paints and supplies from Salvatore's shack. They trooped solemnly into the small room, and Salvatore stood, eyes downcast. He wasn't sure what to say, or what to do. Luckily, Jake had no such problem.
"Hey, Sally," he said. "Help me hang this up, will you?"
Salvatore glanced up. Jake held what at first looked like an old sheet folded over his arm. When he shook it out, Salvatore saw that it was a piece of white canvas — the kind of canvas he'd seen in art shops from the street. The kind he'd dreamed of painting on one day.
"Over here," Snake said, stepping to a bit of wall where there was no furniture to impeded them. "We'll pull the table over for the paints."
Jake walked to the wall, and Salvatore followed. The big man turned, and held the bit of canvas up against the wall.
"How high is good?" he asked.
Salvatore took a step closer and held up his right arm, as if he had a brush in it. He let his finger fall against the center of the canvas.
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