Still, Donovan knew some things. He thought back to other times, and other places far from San Valencez and California. Donovan had come by his learning by long travels, and by even longer nights of study. He'd visited Jamaica, and Haiti. He'd spent time across the border in the jungles of South America and the cities of Mexico. Back in his study he had books, manuscripts, hand-scribed notes he'd taken himself, and he thought that, perhaps, it was time to review some of them and refresh his memory.
There are many channels of energy running in and through the world. Places of power rested where they crossed, and lines of magic littered their trails. Each of them was the source of mysteries and rituals, but one thing was true of each and every one — there was a balance. Nothing came without cost, and there were rules. When the rules weren't followed, the balance became skewed, and when that happened it was no longer an individual concern. Imbalance in one quarter led to a similar imbalance somewhere else — equal and opposite. Donovan had devoted much of his life to the protection of that balance.
If what Cord had told him was true, Anya Cabrera was dangerously close to upsetting it. There was a reason the Loa only visited during particular rituals, and there was a reason they needed to return. While controlling them on this plane might seem simple and appealing, control, like anything that required effort, wore thin over time. The thought of those dark spirits walking the streets unfettered sent a chill up his spine.
He passed Forty-Second Street and turned, glancing in the direction of Santini Park. He knew that any evidence of the night's activity would have washed away in the storm. Probably the area was cordoned off by the yellow crime-scene tape and sawhorses, shadowed and forgotten by night. He turned away and continued toward home. He had reading to do, and he needed to get word and questions out to other contacts. It was looking to be a long, interesting night.
Chapter Four
Salvatore sat cold and miserable, huddled on Martinez's front step. When the old man finally rose and stepped outside, he glanced down and shook his head.
"How long have you waited here?" Martinez asked.
Salvatore shrugged. "I watched the sunrise."
"Come inside," Martinez said roughly. "It is too cold here for my old bones, and there is tea."
Salvatore stumbled to his feet, and followed the old man inside. He glanced around, as he always did, intrigued by the small home's interior. Shelves and alcoves lined the walls. Each held vials of powder, rolled strips of paper, old books bound in worn, rough leather, feathers, candles, and more. There were symbols, or letters in a language that Salvatore was unfamiliar with, painted on the walls. There were rugs and tapestries depicting strange places, and stranger creatures.
The air was scented with herbs and spices, and other aromas more difficult to place. It was impossible to say why, but the simple smell of the place calmed him, and the thought of the hot, pungent tea Martinez always served helped him order his thoughts. He knew he would have to tell Martinez about the dream, but he didn't know how to start, or how to bring it to life in words. Sometimes the old man listened with careful interest, and other times he silenced Salvatore in scorn. The latter was rare, but Salvatore had a good memory. This time, he knew, it was important that the old man listen. The image of the fallen dragon, lying prone and lifeless on the beach, flickered through his mind.
Martinez glanced over his shoulder, and Salvatore dropped his gaze. A moment later they were seated at the battered kitchen table. To Salvatore's surprise, the old man gave him bread and butter with his tea.
"You haven't slept," Martinez said.
"I dreamed," Salvatore said simply. "It was very real."
"Tell me," Martinez said softly.
Salvatore sipped his tea to clear his throat, glanced longingly at the bread and butter, and then did as he'd been asked.
"I was in another place," he said. "There was an ocean, and there were eyes; great orbs of light that filled the sky. I was frightened, but I could not look away. Then I saw it. It was a dragon, huge and powerful. It screamed, and I wanted to run, but I could not move."
"Did it see you?" Martinez asked. The old man's voice remained calm, but when Salvatore glanced up, the old man's eyes glittered with a light Salvatore had seldom seen.
"Yes." Salvatore said. "It turned to me, but then, something happened. Very suddenly it flew into the sky."
A sudden knock on the door interrupted Salvatore's story. He fell silent, uncertain what to do.
"Wait," Martinez said. "Eat your bread and drink more tea. We aren't done here."
Martinez rose and answered the door. Salvatore shook his head slowly to clear it of visions, and reached for the bread. His fingers trembled with hunger and he fought the urge to stuff all of it into his mouth in a single bite. He spread the butter over it evenly and took a small bite from one corner.
When Martinez opened the door, a large, dark haired man stood outside. The man's arms were covered in tattoos. His hair was long, pulled back in a pony tail. He wore jeans, boots, and a denim vest covered in pins and colorful patches. A chain dangled from his hip, looping back and fixing his wallet to his belt. Salvatore had seen the man before, though he did not know his name.
"What is it, Jake?" Martinez asked.
Jake's face was drawn and pale, and much like Salvatore, he seemed to have gotten little or no sleep. He held another vest in his hands, and he twisted and wrinkled the fabric nervously as she stood, as if on the verge of some outburst, or emotion.
"It's Vasquez," he said softly. "He's dead. Last night, in Santini Park…"
"I have heard," Martinez said, cutting the man off gently. "I did not know if was truly El Gigante, but I heard many died."
Jake nodded. "It was Los Escorpiones, but…something was wrong."
"Come in," Martinez said, stepping aside.
The old man glanced at Salvatore, then back at Jake.
"It is okay to speak in front of the boy. He does odd jobs for me. He will be…discreet."
Jake glanced at Salvatore, frowned, and then nodded. He stepped inside and a moment later, he'd joined them at the table. Martinez poured another cup of tea. Jake took it without even glancing at it and poured a long shot down his throat, ignoring the burning heat.
"This will sound crazy," Jake said. "but it's true. I was there, and I saw it with my own eyes. If it hadn't been for the storm, I doubt I'd be here to tell the story."
Martinez sipped his tea and waited. Salvatore ate his bread slowly and kept his eyes averted, pretending not to listen.
"I've fought Los Escorpiones before," Jake said finally. "They are snaky bastards, but they're just men. We've had something of a truce for several years now, but lately they've spread out and gotten too bold. We heard rumors that things had changed, but Snake figured it was just talk. Last night we were supposed to put them in their place. We didn't expect to win, exactly, just to reassert ourselves. If you don't make a show of power now and then, your borders tend to shrink. No one was happy about it, and the stories didn't help. By the time we got there, with the lightning and the storm clouds gathering, everyone was spooked. Everyone but Snake.
"At first it seemed like we were the only ones in the park. Then they were there. I swear to God they were not human. They moved faster than any men I've ever seen. I cut one of them at least three times, but he wouldn't stay down. Snake said no guns, but after a few minutes a couple of the guys pulled theirs all the same. It didn't seem to matter. They couldn't get off a clean shot, and when they did it was like shooting smoke.
"We lost five men, and another ten were cut or hurt. Just before the storm broke, they took Vasquez. I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see it. He went down under a mountain of them, and we thought he was done, then he just erupted — rose up like some sort of crazed monster in an old movie and started flinging the little bastards off him like they were rats. It didn't matter. They took him down — and that's when the sirens rose. We took the colors from those we lost, and we got the hell out
of there."
Jake paused for a moment then, catching his breath. It seemed as if the big man might break down, but he got control of his voice, and he went on.
"I'm not one to run from anything, but I'll tell you. I was glad to turn my back on that fight — happy to get away with my life."
He glanced down then and saw that he'd twisted the vest in his hands into a tight roll. One of the pins had popped off — a small chrome dragon. He slowly released his hands, then picked up the pin and stared at it.
"He was a good man," Jake said. "Vasquez was a mountain. Snake depended on him, and…"
He fell silent then, and Martinez spoke at last.
"I understand. I, too, have heard the stories. I believe there is a real danger, and I will do what I can to help. That is why Snake has sent you to me, yes? For my support?"
Jake nodded. He glanced around the room dully.
"You've known me a long time, Martinez. You know I've never much believed in all of this," he swept his arm out to encompass the shelves and the walls. "I believe in what I know, and I don't' know… this. At least, that's what I thought. Now…"
He trailed off. Salvatore ate the last bite of his bread and washed it down with a sip of tea. He turned as Jake slowly unrolled the vest he'd been bending and twisting out of shape. It unfurled onto the edge of the table, and Salvatore stared. His hands shook, and a bit of the tea in his cup splashed onto the table. Jake and Martinez turned to him, and he lowered his eyes once more.
"I am sorry," he said softly. "I am very tired."
Jake only glanced at him for a moment, and then returned his attention to the vest in his hands. Salvatore felt Martinez' gaze remain on him for a moment longer, but he didn't meet it. He couldn't get the image of the vest on the table out of his mind. He'd seen it before — and he knew of the man who'd worn it. His heartbeat sped, and he did not try to drink again, fearing another spill.
Martinez broke the silence.
"Tell Snake that I will do what I can. What is happening affects us all, and we must stand together. Tell him to send word to the other clubs…the smaller ones. They will already know that something is wrong, and I believe they will offer support. Tell them all to keep their eyes, and their ears open. Anything and everything they learn about these others — Los Escorpiones — I need to know."
"The police took him," Jake said. It was hard to tell if he'd heard what Martinez said. He was staring at Vasquez's colors. "His body won't be released immediately — his family is trying to get control of the remains — and to arrange services. You'll come?"
Jake glanced up then, to gauge Martinez's reaction.
"Of course," the old man said. "I will come, and I will help with the preparations. I have contacts with the authorities as well…I will see what I can do to speed the release of his remains. I am very sorry for your loss. I have known the man you call Vasquez since his mother named him Pepe twenty years ago. I knew her mother as well."
Jake frowned, as if trying to calculate how old that would make Martinez, or whether to believe it was true. He rose slowly.
"I'll tell Snake what you've said. It will ease his mind, I think. I'm sure he will come to you — to talk."
Martinez nodded. "I am always here," he said. "I'll be waiting."
Martinez rose and saw the bigger man to the door, closing it behind him. Then he returned to the table and sat.
"What did you see?" he asked abruptly. "When you spilled your tea?"
"I know that vest," Salvatore whispered. "He is El Gigante — one of The Dragons. I saw him — I mean…" Salvatore fought for the right words. His face flushed; he knew it would sound strange — that Martinez might not believe him. "I have seen his dragon."
"Last night, you mean?" Martinez said. He wasn't asking. "You saw it in your dreams; you saw him die."
Salvatore nodded. "Yes." He glanced up. "I couldn't save him. I couldn't help him. I could only watch, and I was afraid."
"There was nothing you could have done," Martinez said. "There are powers at work — powers you know nothing about. Still, you were there — and you saw. That is something that few have ever been able to accomplish. There may yet be a way that you can help. The others like Jake — they are all Dragons. Do you understand?"
Salvatore did understand. He'd dreamed of the dragons more than once, seen them soar and heard them scream, but always at a distance. Salvatore walked the streets, at times, running errands for Martinez, or just searching for food. He saw the Barrio's Dragons roaring past on their glistening bikes, parked outside local bars, meeting in the park. He knew where their clubhouse was located, and when he saw the dragons — the real ones — he always knew which of them they were connected to. He didn't' know how he knew, or why he saw them when no one else did — but he knew Jake's dragon as well as that of the fallen giant, Vasquez.
"I have seen them," he said softly. "I have seen many dragons…but I don't know how to help."
"You still draw?" Martinez asked, changing the subject to quickly Salvatore was confused.
"Yes," he said.
"Do you paint?"
"A little," Salvatore said. He was shy about his art, uncertain what others would think. He kept it locked away most of the time. "I have little paint. I have made some canvas by cutting scraps and cleaning, but it is hard."
"I will get you the canvas, and the paint," Martinez said. "Go and draw. Draw the dragons as you've seen them. I don't understand it completely yet, but you have a part to play before this is all through."
Salvatore gulped the lukewarm remnant of his tea and rose. He started for the door, but Martinez called out to him.
"One more thing," the old man said.
Salvatore turned.
"Stay clear of Anya Cabrera and Los Escorpiones. If you hear anything, or see anything, come straight to me."
Salvatore nodded. He slipped out the door, already thinking of his pencils, and what he would draw. If was good to have something to concentrate on — something other than the dying dragon on the cold sand of another world.
Chapter Five
Martinez stood for a long time in his doorway, watching as Salvatore disappeared down the street. He would have taken the boy in long before and begun the long, arduous training he knew was a part of both their futures, but there were other matters that had to be dealt with first. He only hoped they both survived.
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 for
ce 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.
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