Saba bowed to her again. "This is my… friend, Malcolm. May he stay and watch the lesson?"
Kameko gave the low, waist-bending bow of someone trying to display humility though she blatantly studied him out of the corner of her eye. Malcolm returned the bow in perfect form, not as low as hers, but low enough to show he considered himself more humble than she gave him credit for.
Then, to Kameko's delight, he launched into a long, flowery speech in Japanese. Saba listened, open-mouthed, as Malcolm thanked her for the privilege of watching the practice, certain she would show him the best instruction he had ever seen in his life. Kameko listened to him go on and on, then Saba's stern teacher actually began to smile and even laugh. She placed her dainty hand over her mouth and giggled shamelessly.
When Malcolm finished his flattering speech, Kameko led him to a folding chair near the mats, indicating it with her hand. "Hai, dozo. We will bring you tea, Malcolm-sama."
Malcolm thanked her again in more Japanese before taking his seat. Kameko bowed once more, then scuttled away, her kimono flip-flipping around her feet, to speak to one of her helpers.
Saba dropped her purse to the floor and knelt on her mat, trying to calm herself for the lesson to come. Tea ceremony was a Zen art, where each move was deliberate and slow, partly meditation. She wasn't sure, however, how well she'd be able to meditate with Malcolm sitting three feet away exuding masculinity and reminding her of what they'd been doing not twenty minutes ago.
"You miscalculated the time," she hissed at him.
Malcolm lounged back in the chair, as commanding of his surroundings as always. "I did not. I simply did not wish to stop."
You and me both, Saba thought, then turned her attention to Kameko, who had knelt in her place facing them.
One of Kameko's assistants, also dressed in kimono, approached Malcolm with a wooden tray containing a simple black teapot, porcelain cup and plate of traditional Japanese sweets. Another assistant brought out a folding table, which she set up with delicate movements, and the first assistant gracefully served Malcolm the tea.
Malcolm accepted the teacup from her with murmured thanks. The two young women simpered under his attention, then bowed and moved away, giggling behind fingers in the Japanese way. Malcolm lifted the cup, took a sip, and nodded his appreciation to Kameko, who had been watching him closely.
When Kameko, actually blushing, turned away to begin the lesson, Saba whispered, "You must have been a hit when you lived in Japan."
"On the contrary, I caused much concern. They did not know what to make of me."
Saba would love to hear that story, but Kameko had bent her brown eyes on Saba, and she turned her attention to the lesson.
Most of the students were well along in their studies and tonight they would practice those parts of the ceremony that gave them the most trouble. For Saba, it was folding the fukusa, the silk cloth used for wiping the tea scoop and the handle of the teapot. It had to be folded precisely, but the silk always slipped in her fingers, and she could never quite get the folds perfect.
Saba admitted that despite her frustration with the fukusa, she enjoyed tea ceremony. She laid out her equipment: cup, whisk called a chasen, tea kettle, container of tea, dipper for water, and the bamboo tea scoop she'd carved herself. Each piece had its own place on the low table, each had its own history, each would be used with precise movements.
It was much like laying out an altar for a ritual, she always thought, using tea things instead of a cup, a knife, candles, and a pentacle. Rather than invoking the Goddess and raising energy for magic, she put her energy into making and serving the perfect cup of tea. Instead of meditating on her athame, mixing salt, and water in the chalice, she'd meditate on the ladle and mix tea and water in the bowl. The results and purpose were different, but the method was somewhat the same.
She picked up the fukusa and started to practice. She felt Malcolm's eyes on her as she raised the cloth and used her thumb to make a perfect fold, or tried to. The cloth slid slightly lopsided and she heard Kameko hiss gently through her teeth.
Saba unfolded it and tried again.
She tried to put all that had happened—the archives and the stolen book; watching Malcolm be buried in falling rock; the draining exhaustion of opening the door; the lovemaking as Malcolm healed her—out of her head so she could sink herself into the simple world of tea. Not easy with Malcolm sitting so near and Kameko's eye on her, not easy when the death of the witch and the black swirls of magic in that house in Pacific Heights still haunted her.
But the mastery of meditation was to focus even when conditions weren't in your favor. She turned her attention to finishing the fukusa and then practiced lifting the ladle handle and running it up her thumb before picking it up. She'd almost managed to shut out the turmoil in her head when she noticed Malcolm rise from his chair and move to the far side of the room.
He walked easily, not drawing attention, and everyone ignored him, even Kameko and her assistants. He could do that if he chose, go where he wanted, do what he wanted without anyone noticing, a subtle magic to make people look the other way for a moment. Only Saba, who'd become attuned to every nuance of him, observed him.
The ladle fell with a gentle clatter when she saw the man Malcolm had crossed the room to meet. The man's long white hair stood out in the shadows of the far end of the hall, his intense green gaze moving to absorb Malcolm.
The two men began to talk. Not arguing, not snarling, not circling each other as Malcolm and Caleb often did. They simply spoke to one another, standing an arm's length apart.
At least that's what it seemed outwardly. Saba's witch's sight saw magic sliding from the white dragon, white threads that snaked around Malcolm and pulled tight. Malcolm's own silver and black threads counteracted them, the two dragons exchanging words too low to hear.
Saba half rose, and Kameko gave her a look of gentle admonition. Saba retrieved her ladle, her heart thumping with dread. She tried to concentrate on dipping the ladle into the water and trickling liquid into the tea kettle, but her gaze zoomed across the room again where the two dragons faced each other.
Suddenly Malcolm jerked, and a pulse of black surged around his throat. Saba sprang to her feet. The other students looked up, and Kameko, who had her back to the drama on the other end of the room, frowned at her. Saba skirted her teacher with a hasty apology and hurried toward the two dragons.
"Malcolm!" she called.
He didn't answer or even turn. The white dragon looked directly at Saba, his green eyes luminous, his face alight with triumph. He pointed at her, and a wave of power sent her stumbling backward.
She struggled to remain upright. "Malcolm!"
Malcolm didn't look at her. The white dragon strode away, and Malcolm followed him without a backward glance. By the time Saba regained her footing and rushed after them, they'd banged through the outer doors and into the night.
Saba wrenched open the door. San Francisco was dark now and cold, a light rain falling. She dashed out of the building and across the lighted street, still full of people shopping and dining in Nihonmachi, the area around the Japan Center.
She saw the two dragons moving quickly through the crowd, people melting out of their way as though an unseen force pressed them aside. Saba abandoned all caution and ran after them.
She caught up to the two men just outside an ornate pagoda in the middle of a tiny green off Post Street, not the Peace Pagoda of the Center, but an artist's structure, given by an organization in Kyoto a few years ago. The Kyoto pagoda was a painted wooden edifice fifteen feet high and large enough around for two or three people to go inside at a time.
The pagoda was closed now, a sign hanging on the door in both English and Kanji to explain the fact. The white dragon, ignoring the signs, wrenched open the door. He disappeared into the pagoda, and Malcolm followed.
Saba put on a burst of speed and caught up to Malcolm on the threshold. She grabbed the sleeve of his coat. "Malcolm!
What are you doing?"
Malcolm jerked from her grasp and snarled at her, his eyes harsh. "Stay away. Do not follow."
As Saba wrung her stinging hand he dove inside the pagoda and slammed the door. Saba grabbed the handle, but the door was locked.
Her heart pounded in panic. What she'd seen in Malcolm's eyes was not anger at her, but determination and fury, and behind it vast pain. Pain greater than any man could endure, and she knew with certainty what had happened. Forcing her worried mind to focus, she spelled the lock and wrenched open the door.
The pagoda was empty. The little room inside was ten feet square, large enough to enter and gaze at the workmanship of the wooden building from within. It was beautiful, its carved and polished beams a testament to craftsmanship.
Malcolm and the white dragon were nowhere in sight. A smell like burned wire filled the air, but Malcolm was gone.
* * *
Chapter 11
Malcolm stepped through the magic portal in the pagoda to find himself at a great height, the black waters of San Francisco Bay far beneath him.
"An interesting choice," he said.
Both Malcolm and the white dragon stood steadily against the gale that buffeted them, easily balancing in the narrow platform. Being a dragon, the height didn't bother Malcolm, but of course if he fell, his human body would die.
"I am pleased you find it so." The white dragon rested his hand on the steel girder next to him. "Pass your hold of the witch Saba to me."
"I have no hold over Saba," Malcolm said calmly.
"You live with her, you couple with her." The white dragon gave him a look of vast disgust. "They are just animals, you know. Meat with rudimentary intelligence."
"She resisted my mark," Malcolm replied in a mild tone. "She learned to, which is why she could resist yours."
"Yet she follows you like one of their dogs, she races after you when she believes you in danger."
Malcolm shrugged, remaining placid through the ferocious pain that tore at him. He clenched his teeth at the fiery threads wrapping his limbs, the music of his true name binding him as sure as steel.
"Perhaps she likes me," he forced out.
"No one likes a dragon. They obey a dragon or flee from it."
"Then you don't know these animals, as you call them, very well."
"I don't want to know them well. I have to use them but I have no intention of becoming friends with them, as you say."
"Then you will run short of allies," Malcolm observed. "As you will if you kill every human when you're finished with them, like you did the blond witch."
The white dragon smiled. "The one called Rhoda. She expressed regret at helping me and threatened to end the spells she'd set up for me. She had doubts about what I wished to do—the morals of it, if you please." He showed his pointed teeth. "You saw the pathetic creature, those parties she used to relieve her strange sexual obsessions. She had a good mind, almost dragonlike, but Saba's mind is better."
"You will not touch Saba."
"You cannot prevent me. You belong to me now, black dragon."
He licked his lips as though he found the taste of Malcolm's name exquisite. The pain of it seared Malcolm's body and would not disperse until the white dragon chose to relieve it.
Knowledge of a dragon's true name gave the being who knew it great power. That power could be gentle benevolence as when a mother called her hatchlings to feed them, but in other hands it was no less than the rape of the dragon's self. Malcolm had known the danger when he'd confronted the white dragon, but he'd needed knowledge and to learn how to thwart the white dragon's plans. The risk was worth it.
Malcolm sat slowly down on the steel ledge and dangled his feet over nothingness. Lights of ships passing below were yellow glitters in the darkness, and his dragon sight picked up the white foam on the water in the ships' wakes.
He said conversationally, "You asked the witch Rhoda to program a virus in the archive computers that would build a loop in the alarm system. From what I understand of these things, it would take a few days for the virus to go off, a time bomb as Saba called it. You waited until a day I was out of the archive, then you went in under Metz's nose and stole The Book of All Dragons. You learned my name and have been using it to drain my powers."
"It worked," the white dragon said dryly.
Malcolm continued, "Whether killing Rhoda was part of the plan or not, I cannot tell. I think it was just pique. You killed her and left her in the tower room of the house, and stalked Saba. You are using the book to… I'm not certain, but gaining mastery over dragons is part of it."
"Should there be more?" The white dragon smiled again.
"Since I am the keeper of the archive and you've started on me, I assume there is something there, perhaps the entire archive, that you want."
"Perhaps."
"But you needed a witch to help you go to and from Dragonspace," Malcolm said, keeping his voice steady. "How did you return, if you'd already killed Rhoda?"
The white dragon looked smug. "She was a clever young woman. She could program viruses, as you discovered, to go off at certain times. She could create doors that would also open at certain times. The magic worked even after she was dead. I used the last of those doors to return after you threw me back to Dragonspace. It was the last spell she had laid before I broke her neck."
So proud of her he sounded, and yet, he'd killed her. "Then you'll need another witch if you've used the last of her magic."
"And I've found one. Not as good as yours and not as cute, but I've found one."
"I'm guessing she hasn't succeeded in creating a portal to Dragonspace or you wouldn't still be here."
The white dragon shrugged. "She has other uses. I will have your Saba in the end, though. She is the strongest witch I've ever encountered, and when I finally make her mine I will become the most powerful dragon in Dragonspace."
"I see."
Malcolm could do nothing physically against the white dragon with the music of his true name wrapping every limb, plus the spell of the name kept him from killing the one who wielded it. But while he sat quietly plan after plan streamed with lightning speed through his mind. The white dragon assumed Malcolm helpless, but there were more ways of besting an opponent than brute force.
Malcolm had spent his eight hundred years in exile building layers upon layers of networks of people throughout the world, with loyalties and assets far surpassing any organization a crime lord could dream of. He only had to pull the right strings and dozens of people would come to his aid. The white dragon had no idea how to cultivate relationships if all he could do was kill those who'd disappointed him. Regarding humans as mere animals was a great mistake.
"I'll leave you now," the white dragon said. He picked up a chain that rested on the end of the platform. Manacles dangled from it.
"I have no way of escaping, even if you do not chain me up," Malcolm pointed out.
"You're a black dragon. You'll think of one. Put your hands behind you."
Compelled, Malcolm clasped edges of the girder behind his neck. The white dragon was right, given time, Malcolm's black dragon brain would find a flaw in the white dragon's power and exploit it to escape. He would weigh the risk-to-reward ratio—pain and death being the risk and freedom being the reward—and choose whichever plan fit best.
The white dragon wrapped the chain around the bar and snapped the manacles on Malcolm's wrists. The metal tingled with magic, the spells on them strong.
The white dragon stepped away, and Malcolm felt a surge of power that opened the way from this high perch back to the city.
"I'm off to find your Saba." The white dragon smiled. "You can think about the many things I will force her to do for me—you can wonder how far I will go to bend her to my will."
Malcolm said nothing. The white dragon was obviously trying to goad him to jealousy, rage, anguish, and the rest, and Malcolm stoically refused to give him satisfaction. Not that rage didn't burn deep insid
e him, glowing embers that would be fanned into full anger when the time was ripe.
Disappointed in Malcolm's lack of response, the white dragon settled for kicking him in the face. Then he turned, stepped through the magic portal, and was gone. Light flashed and the door vanished.
Malcolm moved his jaw delicately and spat out the blood that pooled inside his mouth. He settled himself as comfortably as he could on a narrow steel ledge with his hands chained behind him and a sickening drop below. The wind was cold and sharp, clouds scuttling between him and the moon and starlight.
He busied himself sending out threads of thoughts to people around the city he'd touched during his last exile and counting the ships that passed far below.
Kameko's look of vast disapproval turned to distress as Saba snatched up her things and said she had to leave for an emergency. Kameko seemed to understand it involved Malcolm. "A gentleman," she called him, "who wears the old-fashioned ways. Go find him Saba-san."
Saba fled the auditorium, pulling on her coat and snatching the cell phone out of her purse. She thanked the Goddess for speed dial because her shaking fingers could never have punched in a full phone number.
"Lumi?" she shouted into the phone when the soft-voiced young man answered. "I need to find your friend—Axel. Where would he be?"
"At a bar in the Tenderloin. Malcolm knows it."
"Malcolm's not here." She outlined what happened, and Lumi made noises of dismay.
"I thought I felt something," he said miserably. "I felt him being pulled, but the bond he has on me didn't break. He's still in the city, I'm sure of it."
"Yes, but where? And the white dragon's on the loose. We need to find him, fast. Where is this bar?" Even as she spoke, she trotted to the bus stop that would take her in the right direction.
"It's called Gary's and it's off Hyde Street. But you're not going in there by yourself. You shouldn't even walk past the place by yourself."
The Black Dragon Page 14
