Vintage Soul
Page 23
The sound of the wind beyond the walls of his shed became the breath of something large and sinuous, and the rain, crashing in heavy waves across the time-worn walls and tin roof the scrape of talons on stone and sand. Salvatore clutched his dirty, tattered sheet closer about his thin frame. The glowing orbs grew in size as he approached until they filled his vision, and out beyond the crashing waves, lightning crackled against a backdrop of purest ebony. Salvatore concentrated during those flashes of light and tried to make out the form of what lay beneath and around those eyes. He failed. There was an amorphous shadow against the backdrop of pure darkness that was the moonless sky, but no outline, no structure that he could apply to make the thing more real, or less terrifying.
Salvatore's heart thudded in his chest, seeming to miss every other beat in its hurry to skip from one moment to the next. He tried to breathe slowly, but could not seem to fill his lungs at all, forced to settle for small gasps or air that served only to raise his heartbeat to a thundering pulse in his head.
The lightning flashed closer, and he tossed in his sleep, nearly slipping from his narrow cot to the dirt floor beneath. Flashes of green and gold flickered from the darkness in that instant, and then faded. Salvatore blinked, hoping the strobed image would take a more defined shape in his private darkness, but it did not. Again, all he saw were the huge, yellowed eyes, glaring down at him. He felt the thing's hot breath, and knew its rage - its thoughts.
He stepped closer still, and the sky around him exploded in a sudden burst of light. The fury of the storm washed over the beach, drenching him; the lightning flashed so suddenly, and so bright that his sight was stolen. His breath ended in the sudden wave of water, ears pounding with the twined beat of surf and storm and the roar of thunder, rippling over the sand and melting to a mind-shattering scream of rage.
Salvatore reeled under the assault. He fought to close his eyes and blank the nightmare images from his thoughts. He fell back, landed roughly on the damp sand, and he saw it. The dragon reared over him in the strobed lightning illumination, its form and rage embedding themselves in his mind and soul.
Salvatore shook his head and whispered, "No," to the howling wind and roaring dragon, but there was nothing he could do. The dragon screamed and soared into the darkness, visible now, though barely. The sky melted from image to image as only dreams and nightmares can. Salvatore screamed then, too. He knew this Dragon, recognized the pulsing heat at the center of the creature's image. He wanted to cry out, to scream a warning, but it was too late.
The Dragon wheeled once, roared its defiance into the face of the storm, and flipped to its back in mid-air. It hung there for a long moment, and then plummeted toward the sand and waves. Salvatore turned and crawled toward the surf. He wanted to scream again, but the image of the falling dragon had robbed him of breath once more. He whispered, low and soft. "No."
The sudden crack of thunder too close to the shed ripped through Salvatore's dream and brought him bolt upright on the cot, shivering uncontrollably. His sheet was drenched in sweat, and wind whistled through the cracks in the walls and tore at him, dragging goose bumps up to ripple over his skin. His teeth chattered, and his eyes were open so suddenly, and so wide, that he was momentarily blinded. He saw nothing but the final image of the dream. Nothing but the dragon.
He gasped and fought to calm his heart, and his breath. The dragon released his vision, but it was trapped inside him, thrashing and raging against the storm that was his mind. He glanced toward the doorway, wanting to rush out into the night, and to find out what had happened. The visions never came to him without cause
Slowly, Salvatore rose, pulled his tattered jacket down from its hook on the wall and wrapped it around the damp sheet. He closed his eyes, but sleep was very slow to come, and not deep enough to provide rest. He dreamed of the dragon until the sun reached soft orange-red fingers over the skyline to tempt him from his bed. Finally he rose, dressed, and slipped out the door into the fresh morning air, where he walked to Old Martinez's steps and sat on the cool concrete to wait the "Prophet's" arrival. All he could expect was a warm cup of tea and a slice of bread, but at least he would not greet the morning alone.
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Table of Contents
VINTAGE SOUL
LICENSE NOTES:
OTHER CROSSROAD TITLES BY DAVID NIALL WILSON:
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT FROM – HEART OF A DRAGON
Chapter One