Heart of a Dragon (6 page)

When he realized that he'd been standing alone in the doorway watching an empty street for too long, Martinez heaved a heavy sigh, stepped back inside, and closed the door.
 
There was work to do, and he hoped that he wasn't too late for it to matter.
 
He'd had reports for some time that Anya Cabrera had stepped over the boundaries of common sense, but this was the first actual confirmation.
 
The descriptions of the battle, and of
Los Escorpiones
left nothing to the imagination.
  
There were forces unleashed in the Barrio, and they needed to be returned to their rightful place before it was too late.

Martinez scanned the shelves above his table and finally pulled out a tall, oversized leather volume from between two others that were almost identical.
 
He lifted the large tome easily, his wiry strength belying his slender, aged frame.
 
He might be old, but there was a lot of life left in his bones.
 
More than most would credit.

Standing only a little over five feet tall, and weighing in at only about a hundred and forty pounds, Martinez did not cut an imposing figure.
 
His hair was long and gray,
wisping
about his head like a silver nimbus. He wore a white cotton shirt and ancient dungarees.
 
His feet were encased in sandals so old they looked like they were formed by bands of dirt.
 
On the street he blended into the background, drawing little or no attention – unless you knew him.

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.

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 turn 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.