Heart of a Dragon dc-1

by David Niall Wilson

  The big man handed Anya a small, clear bottle. She passed it to Hector.

  "Give each of them a single spoonful of this."

  Hector took the bottle, but he didn't look down to examine it.

  "It will cure them?"

  "It will test them," Anya said flatly. "If they are strong, it will bring them back to you. If they fail to meet its challenge? They will die. It is the only way."

  Hector swallowed again, and then nodded. He turned and started across the room.

  "Do not forget," Anya called after him. "Two nights from now… in the yard."

  The curtains at the far side of the room parted. This time it was the girl, Kim. Hector wondered vaguely how she'd gotten ahead of him and into the passageway. He hadn't seen her pass, and he hadn't heard the telltale jingle of the ornaments in her hair — yet there she was. He followed her into the gloom without looking back, the waxy, disturbing figurines clutched tightly in one fist, and the bottle in the other. As he walked, finally, his erection loosened, and he began to breathe more steadily.

  Chapter Seven

  The farther Martinez walked from the Barrio, the more he stood out among those he passed. They took no notice of him as he slid from aging prophet into the guise of a homeless vagrant by traveling only a few city blocks. There were cities within cities in San Valencez. The inhabitants of one seldom crossed the border into the next. It was comfortable that way. No one had to act to protect a border that wasn't threatened, and what was there in the Barrio that would tempt the well-tailored suits of downtown into the squalor of the Latin quarter?

  Martinez kept one hand in his pocket, where he turned a small parchment around and around in his fingers. He had been saving it against just such a day as this. He intended it as a gift, but the gift would be more of a peace offering, and a bribe. It had been many years since he'd stepped foot in the home of Donovan DeChance There were reasons for that long absence, and he wasn't certain that even the gift in his pocket would bridge that particular gap. It didn't matter; he had to try.

  DeChance collected information. There was nowhere in the world more likely to yield a lost tome, or a forgotten manuscript than the townhouse in downtown San Valencez. Martinez hadn't seen for himself, but his sources told him that much of the information had been scanned and catalogued digitally — that the arcane knowledge of the world was being organized for the first time on computer memory banks and protected more carefully than the gold in Fort Knox. Martinez had no use for telephones, or computers, pagers or stereos. He was born of a different age, and he clung to what he knew best. It didn't mean he wouldn't take advantage of sources as they presented themselves. If DeChance had what he needed, he'd have to find a way to convince the man to share.

  The sun was low in the sky when he finally climbed the steps up into the building that held DeChance's townhouse. There was no doorman, just a series of buzzers in an ornamental brass panel. Martinez smiled as he pressed the number thirteen and waited. He heard a metallic buzz, and a moment later DeChance's voice grated through the small speaker.

  "It has been a long time," he said.

  Martinez smiled. He'd had no illusions about arriving unnoticed.

  "Too long, I think," he replied. "And without the apology I should have offered long ago."

  The speaker was silent, but a second and louder metallic buzz announced that the lock barring Martinez from entering had been disengaged. The old man pressed through and entered the foyer. He knew the way to the elevators, but they made him claustrophobic, and in any case they would be of no help. Most buildings in the older part of San Valencez — those that climbed higher than a dozen floors — skipped the number thirteen. The elevator in DeChance's building was no different, except that the elusive thirteenth floor actually existed. Martinez took the stairs slowly, resting often. He knew DeChance would be patient. He only hoped he would also be forgiving.

  The climb gave him time to think — and to remember. The rift between himself and DeChance was entirely his own fault, and he realized that he could have fixed it any time — on any given day. He could have come here, as he was coming here tonight, and made things right. It had never been important until now, and that meant that it became important only when he needed something. Donovan would see that too…and yet, as he trudged up the stairs toward the thirteenth, Martinez found that he was suddenly and honestly sorry it had come to this.

  He rested at each level. He was an old man. He'd been an old man for a very long time, and before that he was middle aged, and young for equally long times. He had seen things and known things — so many things — that he'd managed to forget which were important, and why. He waited an extra moment on the twelfth landing, and then climbed the last set of stairs and pushed through the dusty door to the thirteenth floor.

  There should have been doors lining the hall, but there were not. He knew that if the doorman, or a health inspector, were to somehow make it to where he stood they would see that line of doors on either side of the hall. None of them would open onto Donovan's quarters. He wasn't exactly sure how it had been done, but it was similar to how he kept the temperature in his home at a constant level and stored far more than his simple four walls could possibly hold. There are many sets of rules governing the universe; Martinez knew more than one. Donovan DeChance had been gathering the knowledge of the ages almost as long as Martinez had been reading the future in piles of animal bones and mixing potions. They walked through two different worlds, but occasionally, their roads crossed. All roads cross; regardless of the theories of Euclid.

  The door opened slowly as he approached. There was no one standing there to greet him, as he'd known there would not be. He stepped inside, and it closed behind him with a dull click. There was a fire in the next room. Martinez squared his shoulders and stepped through into Donovan's den, expecting the worst.

  Donovan stood by the fire and watched as Martinez entered. The old man looked just as he remembered — like a very old, crazed hippie who'd lost his way from the seventies, or a character in a Carlos Castaneda novel. He knew Martinez had been born somewhere in South America, but there was a point in time before which all stories diverged. Donovan had never asked. It was not his business.

  "Too many years have passed since you were last here," Donovan said.

  He stepped across the room and held out his hand. Martinez took it without hesitation, and the old man's grip was firm. Their gazes met… just for an instant… and then Martinez glanced away, taking in the lines of boxes, the overflowing shelves, and Cleo, who sat on Donovan's desk, washing one paw and eyeing him suspiciously. Martinez laughed.

  "I see you have not found a solution to your predicament," he said. "Things have become more, complicated, since my last visit."

  Donovan chuckled.

  "I was thinking about that only this afternoon. It seems something intrudes every time I am ready to deal with it. There is a power aligned against me; perhaps it is too ancient, and too powerful."

  "Perhaps," Martinez said.

  The old man smiled, and Donovan thought the expression looked genuine. This meeting was not going at all as he'd expected. He decided to drive straight through the moment to the heart of the problem.

  "Have you seen Luis?" he asked.

  The words were spoken softly, almost casually, but Martinez froze. His features went rigid and pale. Donovan stepped to the bar and poured two glasses of bourbon. He didn't look at Martinez. He turned and offered one glass to the old man, who took it and sipped silently.

  "I have seen him," Martinez said softly, swirling his drink slowly and staring into it as if it might hold some sort of answers he couldn't find elsewhere in his memory. "Not like that, though — not since that night."

  They drank in silence for a while, and Donovan's thoughts shifted back across the years. It had been more than twenty, but his memories were as vivid as if it had happened only hours before. Some memories are more powerful than others. Some never really let go.

&
nbsp; The moon was full, and Donovan moved quietly through the streets on the border of the Barrio. He scanned the buildings, watched the rooftops and kept to the darkest shadows. He was in unfamiliar territory, and he knew there were those who would not appreciate his presence.

  He had the photo in his pocket. It was of a young girl, Angela. She had smiled for the camera, twisting several strands of dark hair in the fingers of one hand. It was a smile full of potential — a smile with a future and a family. The photograph was of a dead girl, and Donovan intended to find the one responsible. He had promised to do so, and in all the long years of his life, he could honestly say he had never broken a promise. Until now he'd never promised anything he wasn't certain of.

  A shadow flitted between two of the small homes and Donovan grew still. He slowed his breath and sank back against the wall of an old warehouse. Whoever it was, whatever it was, it has passed. Donovan moved on.

  He pulled a small leather case from his pocket. He opened it to reveal a round leather circle with a brass rim. A flick of his wrist and a lens swiveled into view. It was cut from green crystal, and in the dim light he could see nothing through it. Donovan turned, pressed his back to the wall, and breathed a short incantation. He held the lens up, pressed it to his right eye, and scanned the far side of the street.

  The lens glittered and what had been too dark to make out seconds before took on new clarity. Streams of silver wound up toward the sky and disappeared into the clouds. Donovan checked each in turn. They moved, winding in and out of the streets of the Barrio. Each time he found one that was white, or silver, he moved on. To the left of the center of a tall building just across from him, a reddish thread moved rapidly deeper into the dark streets.

  Donovan watched a moment longer, marked the track, flipped the lens closed, and returned it to its case. He slid the case into his pocket, and crossed the street. He looked both ways and then plunged down an alley. No one saw him cross that border, but his passing did not go unnoticed. There was another thread, had he continued to look. It was yellow like gold, or sunlight, and it spun down into the center of the small community. As Donovan entered the Barrio, that thread quivered, like the string of a harp that has been stroked.

  There weren't many people on the street, and Donovan had taken measures to keep the majority of those who were out from noting his passing. He moved quickly, stopping from time to time to pull out the crystal and scan the skies. He wanted to be in and out as quickly as possible. He knew that he was in danger entering the Barrio unannounced, but there was nothing to be done. A girl had been killed, and the killer was getting away. The trail led into the Barrio, and Donovan believed he would find, when he had the time to look into it, that the trail led out as well. This place belonged to old Martinez, but when the borders of one place leaked death onto the streets of another, action was required.

  There was a balance in the city, and sometimes it was as delicate as a single death. Donovan thought he'd caught this one quickly enough, but time was still critical, for his own safety, and for the prevention of more death.

  He passed along the wall of a half-forgotten church, and at the corner, he checked the lens. He slipped it back into his pocket quickly. He was close — very close. He rounded the corner of the building and made his way through debris and piles of old garbage toward a vacant lot behind the building. Light flickered from a fire, and he heard voices speaking very low. Donovan reached the back corner of the building and peered around.

  In the center of the vacant lot, a fire burned in an old barrel. Cinder blocks had been stacked around it to create a fire break. There were several shadowy figures gathered in small groups. They didn't notice Donovan, and when he got a closer look at them, he realized why. They were homeless. They had gathered to share what small rations they'd gathered that day, and the huddle together by the fire, sharing the dim light and the warmth.

  He saw a young couple with a smaller shadow clinging to the woman's leg. There was an old man, and a younger man — maybe in his twenties — with eyes so white and wild they glimmered in the firelight. He looked as if he hadn't eaten in a week, but he paced rapidly back and forth, glared into the shadows, and then spun back and away to pace again. Donovan knew the signs of addiction well enough, and wondered briefly why the others allowed him to stay. He would not help them, or feed them, or protect them. The man would take what he could get; he had no choice.

  Donovan was about to turn away, disappointed, when a cry broke the silence that froze his blood to ice. It rose from low tones to a high, baying howl. Donovan saw those in the clearing draw closer to the fire. The father grabbed his child up in his arms, and then drew his small family together in a tight, protective embrace.

  Something flashed past on the far side of the lot. It moved so quickly that Donovan could not bring it into focus. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and drew out a pocket watch. He held it up, gripped one of four protruding stems, and turned the knob. He closed his eyes as he did this, and when he opened them, things had slowed. The group around the fire stood like statues. Donovan remained where he was, and was rewarded by a second cry. It rose very slowly this time. The sound was like a horrified scream screeching from the needle of a record player on too-slow a speed. The watch in his hand ticked slowly. It was counting down from 60.

  Donovan moved. He pressed off the wall and hurtled into the vacant lot. He slipped past the immobile vagrants and the fire… which had also slowed to the point it seemed to move in stop frames. On the far side of the lot Donovan saw a shadowed figure, still moving, but slowly. He ran, and as he ran, he drew a long, silver cord from his pocket. As he approached the fleeing creature, the clock continued its relentless countdown.

  The thing stood erect, its body covered with dark, glistening fur. The face, though vaguely human, was elongated. The ears were too long, and the jaws were open wide, revealing a long, lolling tongue and sharp, canine teeth. The eyes were yellow and jaundiced, wide with fear and crazed. Donovan unrolled the cord and ran round the creature in a tight circle. He bound it with three tight turns, and just as the last seconds ticked away on the face of the pocket watch, he spoke a short incantation, released the cord, and stepped away.

  The world rushed back into focus. The sound of the fire crackling slammed into him and nearly deafened him. The others in the lot still hadn't seen Donovan, who stood watching as the thing trying to hurtle itself forward and out of sight tumbled suddenly forward and writhed on the ground. It howled, and Donovan stepped back. No one else moved. They turned and they stared at the creature struggling on the ground, and the dark, unfamiliar man standing over it.

  Donovan moved first. He stepped toward the fire, holding up his hands.

  "I am not here to hurt anyone," he said. "I need to make sure that no one else is harmed by this one," he turned and gestured to the creature. It seemed unaware of his presence, or of anything else but the cord that bound it. Its frenzy only increased as it continued to struggle, and the harder it fought for its freedom, the tighter the bonds became.

  "Who are you?" the young father asked. "Why are you here? And that…what is that?"

  Donovan started to answer, but fell silent as another figure melted from the darkness. Tall and thin with his gray hair waving about his face like the mane of some deranged lion, Old Martinez stepped into view. His expression was caught somewhere between anger and pain. He stepped toward the creature, and Donovan moved to come between them. Martinez ignored him. With a sweep of one hand, Martinez sent a small cloud of dust out to settle over the thing. What followed was a sizzling, popping, gut-wrenching sight. The body on the ground twisted and jerked. The features became malleable, shifting from the creature Donovan had captured to the face of a young man, and then back again. It took only moments, but seemed like hours. When it was all done, the young man lay, loose in the now pointless silver binding, in a fetal curl on the dirt.

  Martinez knelt at the boy's side and laid a hand on his shoulder.

>   "Louis?" he said. "Louis, can you hear me?"

  "He killed a girl," Donovan said, stepping closer. "In the city. I left her mother in mourning; I promised to see that there was justice."

  "This is not your concern," Martinez said, rising to face him. "The Barrio is mine…Louis is mine. I will deal with this."

  "How long have you known?" Donovan asked. He didn't turn, or back down. "How long have you known, and how did he get out into the city?"

  Martinez frowned, and it seemed he would ignore the question completely. Then his features softened, just for an instant.

  "I have known his family since his father was a boy," Martinez said. "This happened one, maybe two years ago. The one responsible has been dealt with."

  "Why was Louis not dealt with as well?" Donovan asked. He knew the words sounded harsh, but there were times when sentiment could not be taken into account.

  "Lycanthrope is a disease," Martinez replied. "It does not require a sentence of death if it is controlled. Surely you know others — in the city beyond — who have lived much longer with this curse."

  "They do not kill young girls," Donovan replied. "They have learned control, and have agreed to the proper restraints. I can do the same for your young friend. He will be well cared for — protected from himself, even as others are protected. You know it is the way. You should have brought him to the city when it happened."

  "As I said," Martinez replied, "I will deal with this. The Barrio cares for its own."

  "You know I can't let that happen," Donovan said. "If you let me take him, and you can provide adequate detainment — have it tested — he can be returned. It's the best I can offer."