Heart of a Dragon

by David Niall Wilson

  His eyes were the key. They were grey and bright like chips of ice. There was a power in their depths that was undeniable. If you got close enough to meet that gaze, you realized that your first impression had been very, very wrong. Whatever the old man might be, he was not weak. Among the inhabitants of the Barrio he commanded the respect due a force of nature.

  The book he'd pulled from the shelf was old and brittle, and Martinez handled it with care, separating the pages with one long fingernail and sliding them open. He knew what he was looking for, but it had been a very long time since he'd needed it. So long, in fact, that he couldn't clearly recall the year. The book was written in thin, spidery script. There were incantations, recipes, symbols and wards. He hesitated over each entry; it was good to keep them all in mind, and to know where they could be found. There was too much to know for any one man to remember, so he refreshed his mind when he could.

  Finally, he reached the page he was looking for. Brilliant designs were scrawled across the yellowed paper. Their color was vivid, like the illuminated script of ancient monks. Most of the pages in the book were black and white –simple script and symbol with as little decoration as possible. This page was their antithesis. Martinez traced the designs on the page and stared at the colors.

  F or all the intricacy of the designs, there were very few colors. Three in all. Red, Blue, and Yellow. The primary colors. The colors of all that is real. Everything else, he knew, was a shade – a variant. Three was a powerful number, and these shades – these particular colors – were powerful as well. There were things one could do to enhance their potency. Famous works of art had shared the secret – works of literature through the ages had benefited from illustrations a bit more perfect than others. The magic was not always in the hand wielding the pen. Sometimes the colors spoke for themselves.

  Martinez had watched Salvatore draw. He'd watched the boy wield over-sized bits of chalk and bring things to life on the sidewalks of the Barrio and on the walls of local buildings. There was innocence about him, and a power few suspected. Martinez knew that Salvatore almost never drew just for the joy of his art. He drew because he was compelled. He drew to drive the images and demons of his dreams from his mind. He had begun, even at his young age, to peer into the truths of other worlds. He saw things that others did not, and what he saw made no sense. Instead of going crazy from this pressure, Salvatore had learned to draw. The art was his power – his strength. Martinez knew he would have to serve as guide.

  He worked his way around the room, gathering the items he'd need. He took a dash of powder from one vial, some leaves that he crushed to dust with a mortar and pestle, a few drops of brownish liquid, and a scrap of parchment that he scrawled a series of symbols across, and then burned to ash. He was methodical and thorough, coming back to the book often to check details and compare his gathered ingredients to those listed. After some time and work he has everything he needed, each piece of the arcane puzzle carefully packaged in plastic wrap, or a vial. He rolled all of it together in a soft bit of velvet.

  There was a cupboard above his sink. Martinez opened it, took out an old, cracked pitcher, and slid aside two glasses. He stretched up and tapped three times in the center of the board at the rear of the top shelf. The board tipped out into his hand, and he caught it deftly. He tucked his package in behind it and then pressed it back into place. Once it was secure, he slid the glasses in front once more and lifted the old pitcher back into its place. He didn't think anyone would be watching … not yet … but it was never too soon to take precautions.

  He closed the cupboard, and then traced a circular symbol on the wooden door with one finger. When it was complete, he blew on the spot, then turned and spoke a single word once each to the north, east, south and west, before returning to the table and closing the book. He dusted it carefully with a rag from his pocket, and then placed it back on the shelf where he'd found it, adjusting those on either side so that the three matched perfectly. Sometimes, he knew, the best way to disguise a thing was to leave it in plain sight where it wasn't expected.

  There was nothing more he could do on his own. He had everything he needed for the base color – the primary red. What he needed went beyond that into variances and shades, and for that he needed information. There was only one to whom he could go to get what he wanted, and he wasn't looking forward to asking. The man who held that information wasn't an enemy, exactly, but neither was he a friend. There was a bad memory shared between them, and even if he got past that, the man would have to be convinced. There wasn't much time; Martinez would have to be quick in the convincing.

  The sun had risen nearly to the center of the sky. Stripes of light glinted through the battered shades on his windows. Considering the waves of heat rising from the street, it should have been sweltering inside, but it remained cool. The temperature, in fact, was exactly what it had been when Martinez dropped off to sleep the night before, and when he woke in the morning. Just as with Martinez himself, there was more to the old home than met the eye.

  He didn't need to live in these tiny quarters – he could easily have afforded a much larger place. He could also have gotten plenty of servants from the ranks of the poor families inhabiting the Barrio. It wasn't the kind of thing that mattered to Martinez. He had other concerns, and he was as comfortable as he needed to be. The rudimentary dwelling and simple lifestyle kept him sharp.

  Out on the street the throbbing roar or engines rose, and he stepped to his window. Four motorcycles rolled past slowly. Martinez saw the colors of The Dragons on their back, but he didn't recognize this group. They weren't from the Barrio, but had come from deeper in the city to pay their respects. Vasquez had been well liked – almost a legend for his strength and size. He would be missed, and the Dragons would not take his loss lightly – or without retaliation. The others would have their friends and comrades as well. The Barrio did not take death lightly. The storm clouds had passed, but the Martinez knew that he stood in the eye. There was more to come, much more, and worse.

  When the sound of the passing bikes had dulled to a low rumble, he opened his door and stepped into the street. He turned toward downtown and began walking toward the home of Donovan DeChance.

  Chapter Six

  Tucked away behind the Four Brothers Cantina on a dead end street barely wider than an alley, a dark shop faced out from beneath colorfully painted canvas awnings. Beaded chains dangled in front of the windows. Crosses and crystals glittered in the dim light that managed to filter in through from the street. Candles softened by the warmth of the sun canted at odd angles and hid behind scraps of dark velvet and an array of odd, featureless dolls.

  A visitor to Anya Cabrera's shop might have been reminded of New Orleans. All the stereotypical paraphernalia of voodoo, witchcraft, and Santeria lined the shelves. Milky glass candle holders with pictures of the Virgin Mary and the various saints stood in rows on shelves above others lined with books and small statues. The air was filled with the aroma of dozens of different types of incense. Tiny bins of crystals, spices, herbs and arcane ingredients were tucked up under the bottom shelves and covered the countertops.

  There were bamboo chimes above the door that announced visitors and more beaded curtains that hid secluded, deeper alcoves from sight. If you entered through the front of the shop, that is what you saw. For tourists or those wandering blind, it was a quaint, sort of spooky attraction where you could pick up some strange incense and a voodoo doll to put on your desk at work and name after your boss. For the locals, those who believed, the candles and herbs and small spells chanted over, spat on and sealed in wax were an important part of life.

  There were other ways in and out of the shop, and it wound back through a labyrinth of passageways, curtained rooms, and storerooms. No one knew how long Anya had inhabited that place, but the deeper in you got, the more it resembled a nest, or a hive.

  As the sun began its slow descent toward the ocean beyond the city, a lone figure made the tu
rn into the short street. He did not look behind him, or to either side. His dark hair was slicked back over his ears and tied with a leather thong in back. His tattooed arms jutted from the chopped off sleeves of a black denim jacket. On the back of that vest a scorpion was embroidered in brilliant green and gold. Hector Alvarez walked with a slow, confident stride, his movements fluid and graceful.

  He entered the shop and turned to the counter running along one wall. There was no one seated behind it, and he stared for a moment, growing very still. He turned and scanned the shelves and the beaded passageways leading back into darkness, but nothing stirred. He didn't want to call out. There was an ancient brass bell lying on the counter, but he had no intention of ringing it. He had been invited to this meeting – he wasn't about to let that invitation be converted to a summons.

  "May I help you?"

  The words fell like the tinkling of a bell, soft, but clear. Hector spun back to the counter. Seated just beyond it, in clear sight, a slender woman with deep, brooding eyes watched him calmly. Her long, dark hair was woven into small braids and decorated with tiny silver caskets. They jingled when she moved her head. Hector glared at her and stepped closer.

  "I'm expected," he said.

  She watched him, unimpressed. She shook her head and the silver caskets jingled. At the sound one of the sets of beaded curtains parted and two men stepped through. They were nearly identical, black as if they'd been carved from twin logs of ebony, bald, with eyes that glinted like chips of obsidian. They wore armbands of gold in the shape of entwined serpents, and large gold pendants on chains dangled from their necks. They didn't speak. One stepped through and off to one side, the other held the curtain open with a massive arm.

  Hector turned back to the girl behind the counter. He knew her, or, he knew of her. She was one of several apprentices to Anya Cabrera. Her name was Kim, and she'd been working in the shop since she'd been a very young girl. No one ever saw her on the streets, except running errands in the market. No one knew where she'd come from, who her parents were, or how she'd ended up in Anya's care. The one thing Hector knew for certain – and he knew this because, on a previous visit, he'd passed the girl's rooms and seen it with his own eyes – she slept in a coffin. Her furniture was made of piled grave markers and wooden caskets of every shape and size, molded and re-designed into shelves and cabinets. Hector had caught only a short glimpse through dark curtains, but in that moment he'd seen the girl rise from her…bed. The image had burned itself into his memory, and now, trying to meet her stare – the stare of a mere girl – his blood slowed and expanded like ice in his veins.

  She held his gaze a moment longer, and then nodded toward the two men, and the passage beyond.

  "Raoul and Stephen will escort you," she said.

  Her voice barely rose above a whisper, but it carried. He turned toward the passageway, squared his shoulders, and brushed past the two men. He wanted very much to look back and see if she was watching him, but he controlled the urge. He was afraid that if he turned back, she would not be there, disappearing as quickly as she'd appeared. Hector's face was flushed, and the blood pounded through his veins. He did not like being toyed with. He was the President of Los Escorpiones – a powerful man in the Barrio. The old woman was powerful as well, and she had proven an important ally, but he could not show weakness. He'd come alone, but there were others watching. They filled the streets beyond the shop, waiting for a sign, or for his call. They would descend like an avenging army at the first sign of trouble, but despite this knowledge, Hector prayed it would not be necessary.

  He wasn't worried about Raoul or Stephen. Hector always packed heat, and he was no slouch in a fight. It was this place, this dark, rat-hole with all its odd turns and shadowed rooms. There was no way to know, once you'd taken the first half dozen corners, which direction you were heading. There were other ways out – he knew this because he'd been escorted out by at least two of them over the years, but he was certain if he had to find any of them on his own, he'd be lost for days. Maybe forever. Things in Anya Cabrera's den were not as they seemed, and he suspected, though it made no sense, that they were not always the same, either. Not in the way the streets of the Barrio were always the same, or the lines on his hand.

  Raoul led the way down a long, narrow passage. They turned left twice and right at least once. Ahead Hector saw a light. They headed straight for it, and moments later stepped into a large room with rounded edges. The walls were covered in tapestries, and the floor was carpeted in some sort of lush, green shag that resembled grass too long denied the intimacy of a mower. The air was heavy with the scent of Sandalwood, though the smoke was mixed with other more subtle aromas and too thick to be enjoyable. On the far side of the room, seated in a large, ornate chair decorated with red satin and gold gilt, Hector saw Anya Cabrera. From where he stood it was hard to make out details, but despite this her eyes glittered as she watched him. Nothing else in the room would focus, but he saw those eyes clearly.

  Hector crossed the room. His feet felt heavy, and his legs were sluggish, but he forced them into motion. He knew it was a test. Everything with Anya Cabrera was a test. He had no intention of failing it. He told himself, as he had on so many other occasions, that she was only a woman. His mind flitted briefly back to Santini Park, and the storm. He saw dark figures moving with incredible speed. He heard the screams and the cries – not those of a normal battle at all, but of something darker.

  "You are punctual," Anya said, breaking the silence. "It is a good trait in a young man, and so rare."

  "I do not like to waste time," Hector said. He managed to keep his voice steady. "I have the report you requested on our – encounter – with the Dragons." He fell silent for a moment, but when she didn't answer, he continued. "I also have concerns."

  Anya arched one eyebrow. She smiled, but there was no warmth or humor in the expression.

  "Tell me," she said. "Then we will talk."

  Hector did. He told her how the Dragons had arrived in a roar of chrome and throbbing engines. He told her that Snake had been present, and about Vasquez, the fallen giant. He also told her about his own men, moving like the shadows of bolts of lightning; rising when they should have been dead, fighting on against overwhelming odds like demons and swarming like hordes of vermin. As hard as he tried to prevent it, his voice shook when he told of the storm breaking, and their retreat. He'd gathered his men together, moving like wraiths into the alleys and darkened streets. The Dragons had left their dead and fled. Los Escorpiones had lost no one. Not a single casualty.

  "This is a problem?" Anya asked softly.

  "There are no dead," Hector replied, "but neither do they all live. Two of my men, Paulo and Bernini, have not spoken since the battle. They sit, and they stare, and they do not move. They are like empty shells. Several others stare into shadows with wild eyes, as if they sense things just out of sight, but can never quite find them. I left no men behind, but at least five of those who follow me are as good as dead – possibly worse."

  "They will return," Anya said. "You will bring them to me, and leave them. When the time comes – when you need them to fight – they will be by your side. It is a promise."

  Hector had a lot more on his mind. He wasn't thinking so much about the next time he needed the men to fight. Paulo was his cousin. Paulo's wife and children were sitting at home with a father who would not talk to them and could not see. Bernini was Hector's second in command. It was difficult enough to maintain control over the volatile ranks of Los Escorpiones without having to lose his right hand man. He said none of this because he was certain she already knew it, and because to do so would be to hand her knowledge she could use against him.

  "The Barrio will be yours soon," Anya said. "Our people will overrun all opposition; none will walk the streets without our permission. Victory, in a war like this, never comes without cost. Are you unhappy with the services I have provided?"

  "You know that I am not," Hector said. "
I only question the use of my men as something…less. I have stood with them, shoulder to shoulder. I have shared their pain and broken bread with their families. They follow me because they trust me to lead them well. They will not trust me if I turn them into…"

  "Yes?" Anya said, her voice almost a purr. "Turn them into what?"

  "Diablos." Hector spat. "When I fought last night, it was not men at my side. No one moves that fast. No one walks away from a knife in the gut as if it never happened. I do not know what you did to them, but I know that it was wrong."

  Anya Cabrera unwound herself from her seat like a snake, her movements dark and sinuous. Her hair was long and streaked with gray. She wore a silk gown that draped to the floor, sliding over her hips and cut very low at the neckline, where a beaded necklace dangled an obsidian figurine between pale breasts. Her eyes were such a dark green they appeared black in the shadows, and her smile – if it was a smile at all – was thin and absolutely unreadable.

  Hector stood his ground. He wanted to turn and rush for the exit, but he knew to do so would mean his death, or worse. He remembered what had happened to his men. He thought about Paulo, the man's empty eyes and limp, vacant features. He did not want to become like Paulo.

  Anya stepped closer, and then she raised her right hand, palm up, and snapped the fingers of her left. The younger woman, Kim, slipped out from the shadows behind Anya's chair with a jangle of silver and placed something in Anya's hand. Kim was gone almost as soon as she'd appeared.

  "I understand your concern," Anya said softly. "And I understand how you feel about those who follow you. If you trust me, I will bring you through this, and you will be stronger than you have ever been before. Those who stand with you will be rewarded. I have a gift."

  She held out the object Kim had given her, and Hector saw that it was a velvet bag secured at the top by leather ties. On the surface of the bag, symbols had been stitched with brightly colored thread. He didn't recognize them, but they drew his eye. Anya opened the bag, tipped it up, and shook three small dark statuettes into her hand. They resembled the one dangling about her neck.